


Clever.

by LovelyLifestyle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Love/Hate Relationship, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 77,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2139690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLifestyle/pseuds/LovelyLifestyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What a nimble little girl." Holmes told with a smirk. "I prefer the term clever." she corrected with a shy smile, "Sounds better, heh." Marisol Vallas was ordinary but there were moments when she would surprise Sherlock with that quick wit of hers. Moments that made him appreciate the average but hate the emotions that risen from it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Intro-Deducing"

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello. Welcome, everyone. Just wanted to said I've decided to share this piece of work with the readers here as well (since it also on FanFiction) for more to maybe enjoy. This a Sherlock/OC story. If not your cup of tea, please don't read. ~Lovely

 [Location unknown]

"Deep breath..deep breath.." The mantra echoed in his head as he stood with the other soldiers. He had to stay calm, stay steady. But that was hard to do once the gunfire and explosions came; mingled with the shouts of his comrades and the enemies. He was an important asset to the team. Without him, more men would probably die. He never thought about how much he was preventing God's natural work until in the field. That was a mistake and when he thought like that, he had to steel himself from religion. He couldn't hesitated, not now. But it was easier done than said. Taking another man's life, even if evil, was difficult but mandatory. It was all together disorienting, overwhelmingly traumatic, almost to the point of snapping..which he did.

* * *

[Somewhere in modern-day London, England]

Dr. John Watson jumped from sleep with a terrified shout that echoed in his bedroom..well, if you would call it that. It was more of an open space with his bed in one corner and the doorway to the small kitchen area in another. So basically, he was living in what would have been used as a living room for the diminutive apartment. His frighten, light blue eyes scanned the dim-lit room in search of wartime phantoms. When satisfied his past was just that, he let a sigh escape before flopping back down on his cot.

A smothering and frustrating sadness consumed him that had a sob choked out of his mouth but no tears fell. He was too proud for that. The war veteran tried to sleep again once composed only with zero success. He laid in bed for a few moments staring at the ceiling when a knock made his gaze drift in its direction. There, peeking around the corner leading to the short hallway to the only bedroom in the flat and bathroom, a young Greek woman stood. She was dressed in adorable blue Chinese motif pajamas and reading glasses were perked low on her nose. She looked and spoke with concern.

"I heard you shout. Was it another nightmare?"

John sat up, appearing exhausted. "Uh, yes. Sorry to have woke you."

"It's fine. I was up writing anyway." she shrugged, coming further inside. Watson glanced at the clock on his desk across the room. 3:40 am, it read.

"This late? Sure you don't have insomnia, Marisol?" he asked, worried like any doctor would.

An annoyed expression was given to him. "Yes, for the thousandth time. I was just finishing something up for Mrs. Montgomery. I was about to go to bed when I heard you."

The man looked away, embarrassed. "Oh.." Her dark eyes roamed over him for a moment. Without warning, she sat down on the edge of his bed and pulled him into a hug; his head resting on her chest with hers on top of his own.

"Things will get better..they just have to." He sighed, closing his eyes. She always said that during his rough times since returning. The young woman was so motherly for someone so young and with no children herself. Whenever he noted it, she would simply say it was a common trait for 'Vallas' women.

Marisol Vallas was a pretty as well as smart, twenty-four year old. She was currently studying to become a writer, learning under Professor Agatha Montgomery at Goldsmiths as her assistant. Since a child, she had loved books. She never had many friends growing up because of being a tad timid and introverted. She preferred to stick her nose in a novel and get lost in the world of either fiction or non than conduct and form normal social skills with other children her age. Though at home with family or friends known for a long time, only then, did Marisol come out of her tightly-wrapped cocoon. Then she was witty, adventurous, and playful but ever observant and resolute. The young woman was still the same to this day.

As a pleasant serene enveloped Watson, a feminine hand touched the back of his neck with these blank words following: "Uck, you're sweaty." She released him and stood, leaving to disappear in the hall.

Blue eyes blinked, watching. "Well..goodnight then."

"I'm not going to bed!" came her shout along with the sound of running water.

"Marisol, if you're—" John called, sounding firm.

"Shush, sit on the edge of the bed, and remove your shirt, old man." interrupted her demanding order. He stared after her before complying with rolled eyes.

"Firm like her father.." It wasn't long before she returned, carrying a plastic bowl filled with warm water and a cloth. Sitting beside him, she began gently cleaning his skin of sweat. The two sat in silence until John broke it.

"I'm a thirty-nine year old man yet I feel like I'm eighty with a live in nurse when you do this." the veteran complained, "Just because I have a limp which makes me dependable of a cane and the occasional nightmare doesn't mean I'm helpless."

"I know but there's nothing wrong with a little help." Vallas replied, holding back the rest of what she wanted to add to that response.

He looked at her with his lighter-colored eyes, serious. "But you shouldn't. You're twenty-four with so much still ahead of you. You need to live your life instead of watching out for me." She met his gaze briefly then glanced at the scar on his left shoulder bitterly.

"I know..but it's hard." He nodded in mute understanding.

Michael, Marisol's father, had been his best friend since his beginning days at  _Barts_. John was there for his wedding and the birth of his daughter. So, he had practically seen Marisol grow up. He loved the girl like his own. Her father and him had been in the medical field. Michael knew the risks with joining the war and made Watson promise to look after the young woman if anything happen to him. He died looking out for John during an ambush mission. Marisol was fifteen at the time. Watson, being legally her godfather, got sole custody of her afterwards since her mother had died while she still was a small child and her grandmother being too old to look after her now. It had only been a couple of months since his own discharge and Marisol felt obligated to return the favor. But John, being the proud man he was also, didn't want her wasting her life caring for him.

"After your injury I'm afraid if I take my eyes off you, you'll disappear forever." Marisol whispered, resting her forehead on his bare shoulder.

"Okay, have we been reading  _Poe_  again?" John told, teasing. She always brooded after reading his work. "I'll always be here for you. I am now even after everything." A silent nod was given. He patted her short curly chocolate brown hair as he always did when she was upset. Inside, he said the words he couldn't say out loud that moment.

" _That's why I think it's best I leave.."_

* * *

**[Later that day—Therapy session; 11:45am]**

"How's your blog going?" John wanted to laugh at being asked almost a similar question twice in one day. But instead, he took the young woman's earlier advice and lied.

"Yeah, good." He cleared his throat. Very good."

"You haven't written a word, have you?' his therapist noted correctly, calling him out on his bluff.

"You just wrote 'still has trust issues'." he countered back.

"And you read my writing upside down. You see what I mean?" The man just briefly smirked in response. "John, you're a soldier, and it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

"..Nothing happens to me." Watson honestly told..or so he believed.

While nothing of interest was happening for John, many others were experiencing a more fascinating and similar occurrence but not one of a pleasant sort. No, it was more sinister than perceived by the average human mind and this is what happen:

**[October 12** **th** **]**

_Scenario: A business man is leaving the crowded Heathrow Airport, talking on a cell phone with a woman._

" _What do you mean, there's no ruddy car?_ " A middle-aged woman is seen dressed work-appropriate in a normal glass office, walking around as she talked to a man on the other line. It was his secret lover and both were married.

"He went to Waterloo, I'm sorry. Get a cab!"

" _I never get cabs!_ " said man stated, sounding annoyed.

"..I love you." she whispered with a smile.

"When?" he smirked.

"Get a cab!" the woman ordered playfully. They hanged up then. When the man is next seen, he is unscrewing the cap of a small, clear, pill bottle. Inside were two capsules filled with tiny white and pink specks. He removed one and ate it. Some time after, he laid on his side dying in an abandoned glass building.

_2_ _nd_ _scenario: a live press conference addressing the dead business man's apparent suicide._

"My husband was happy man who lived life to the full. He loved his family and his work, and that he should have taken his own life in this way is a mystery and a shock to all who knew him." read the man's upset wife from a written statement. The unbeknown lover off to the side, silent and grieving as well.

**[November 26** **th** **]**

_Scenario: Two young men are caught in the rain; one with an umbrella and another without._

"Yes, yes! Taxi!" one man tried to hail a cab driving by and was ignored. He turned to his friend before hurrying away. "I'll be back in two minutes, mate."

"What?"

"I'm just going home to get my umbrella."

"You can share mine." his pal offered.

"Two minutes, all right?" he said, not taking his offer and disappeared around the corner. Two minutes came and went and then more passed as well. His impatient mate left in search of him but it was in vain. He was in a closed sports center holding the same bottle as the business man had. The same results happen to him also. A newspaper article was written about his death.

**[January 27** **th** **]**

_Scenario: A birthday party in being held for a middle-aged woman by her coworkers. A younger woman and man are talking at a bar._

"She still dancing?"

"Yeah, if you can call it that."

"Did you get the car keys off her?" asked the man.

The woman dangled them in front of him. "Got them out of her bag."

He faced the dancing crowd, not spying her. "Where is she?" The woman they were discussing was the birthday girl herself who had left the party and was by her car. Drunk, she rooted around in her purse finding not car keys. She is then seen somehow having gotten into a storage unit, sobbing loudly. The suicide pills sit in front of her on the floor waiting..

**[Scotland Yard's Press Conference room; 11:50am on January 28** **th** **]**

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London." stated Sergeant Sally Donovan to the press. Behind her on a screen were the three similar suicide victims—Sir Jeffery Patterson, Beth Davenport, and James Phillimore. "Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now." She looked at the older man sitting beside her, handing it over to him.

"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" asked a male reporter.

"Well, they all took the same poison." he answered, "Um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be. None of them had shown any prior indication—"

"But you can't have serial suicides."

"Well, apparently you can."

"These three people, there's nothing that links them?" queried a black male reporter.

"There's no link we've found yet," told Lestrade, "But we're looking for it—there has to be one." Everyone's phone beeped simultaneously with the same anonymous text message:

_Wrong!_

"If you've all got texts, please ignore them." Donovan informed smoothly.

"It just says 'wrong'."

"Yes, well, just ignore that." she said, becoming a bit frazzled. "If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end."

"If they're suicides, what are you investigating?" added the black man.

"As I say, these suicides are clearly linked. Um, but it's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating." Again, another text.

_Wrong!_

"Says 'wrong' again." The two officers glanced warily at each other. This was getting somewhat out of hand and needed to end quickly.

"One more question."

A woman reporter spoke then. "Is there any chance that these are murders? And if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

"I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, poison was  _clearly_  self-administered.

"Yes, but if they  _are_  murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" she persisted.

"Well, don't commit suicide." Lestrade simply replied, not realizing his mistake until Sally whispered subtly.

" _Daily Mail._ " A newspaper which they had a bad run in before with.

"Obviously, this is a frightening time for people," he tried to ease, "But all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be." Same text message once more:

_Wrong!_

Except for Lestrade, who's read:

_You know where_

_to find me._

_SH_

The conference was ended shortly afterwards. The officers returned to the Homicide department.

"You've got to stop him doing that." the sergeant complained to her superior. "He's making us look like idiots."

"If you can tell me  _how_  he does it, I'll stop him." the man told her, walking away.

* * *

**[Hyde Park; 12:17pm on January 28** **th** **]**

"Geez, she called you out just like that?" Marisol stated, surprised. "She's better than I thought..I mean, your poker face is almost unbreakable."

John glanced at her, incredulous. "Almost?"

She smirked behind her coffee. "Yep,  _almost_." He nudged her shoulder playfully. The two continued walking, chatting idly when she suddenly asked,

"You miss it, don't you?"

"Miss..Miss what?"

"The war..the chaos." the young woman stated softly.

"No, I don't. What gave you that ruddy idea?" the man questioned, baffled.

"You always seem tense when you're out in town..like you can't adjust to regular life anymore."

"That's..That's true. I've been stuck in a battlefield for a long time, so of course it would take me some time to get back to normal." His tone sounded subtly defensive.

"Hmm.." Vallas said, dropping the subject. A silence fell over them until someone called out the man's name.

"John!" He kept walking though the young woman gave him a curious but amused look. "John Watson!" The voice sounded closer, meaning he had to stop and address them. The duo turned to seeing a portly man with glasses.

"Stamford, Mike Stamford." the man reminded, "We were at Barts together. You, me, and Michael."

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike, hello." Watson greeted his old colleague with a handshake.

"Yeah, I know, I got fat." joked Mike.

"No, no." John denied half-heartedly.

"Oh, no.." Vallas suddenly said, glancing at her watch. "I've gotta go catch the Tube if I'm to make in back in time for my next class." She then looked to her friend apologetically, knowing well he didn't really want to be left alone with Mike.

"Go on. It's fine, really." he smiled softly. "Thanks for the coffee, by the way."

"No problem at all." she told, kissing him goodbye on the cheek. She gave a polite nod to Stamford before finally dashing away.

"Girlfriend?" smirked slyly Stamford once she was gone. "Quite  _young_ , eh?"

"..Goddaughter." Watson replied with narrowed eyes. " _Michael's_  daughter."

"Oh..Um, so I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at." Mike stated, quickly changing the subject. "What happened?"

"..I got shot."

"Oh..sorry." They sat down on a bench together then.

"Are you still at  _Barts_ , then?" the veteran asked him.

"Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them." John chuckled lightly at his honest statement. "What about you? Just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an Army pension."

"You couldn't bear to be anywhere else." Mike said with a smile, "That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah, I'm  _not_  the John Watson.." the doctor said harshly. A small silence fell between them for a moment.

"Couldn't Harry help?"

Watson gave a humorless laugh. "Yes, like that's going to happen."

"I don't know, get a flatshare or something?" Stamford offered helpfully.

"Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" John questioned, incredulous. Mike laughed. "What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

"..Who was the first?"

* * *

**[Same day—Basement level: Barts' Morgue; 12:18pm]**

A tall and oddly striking man with short, curly but almost wavy, dark brown hair and clear blue eyes unzipped a body bag and observed the corpse briefly inside, taking a little sniff. He was dressed immaculately with a long black trench coat with a navy blue scarf. Underneath those were a black suit jacket and pants with a button-down collar dress shirt minus a vest and polished dark dress shoes.

"How fresh?"

"Just in. 67, natural causes." answered sweetly genial Molly Hopper—an employee at  _Barts_  and long-time acquaintance of the man. "Used to work here. I knew him, he was nice."

The man zipped the body back up, facing her with tenuous smile. "Fine. We'll start with the riding crop." A few moments later, Molly watched cringing from the viewing window as he struck the dead body violently with said instrument for a long while. She came back inside once he was finished.

"So..bad day, was it?" she assumed teasingly from his display of vicious eagerness.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes." her acquaintance told indifferently, writing something down in a black hand notebook. "A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

"Listen, I was wondering." Molly suddenly blurted, nervous. "Maybe later, when you're finished—" He glanced at her in brief but looked again but fully the next time, having noticed something different about her.

"You're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before." he interrupted.

"I, er..I refreshed it a bit." the woman smiled, a tad taken off-guard.

"Sorry, you were saying?" He went back to writing.

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee." she asked with more confidence now; an obvious invitation to a date.

"Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs." the man informed, having misinterpreted her. He snapped his book closed and quickly left the room with his things.

"..Okay." Hopper said meekly, getting his request.

* * *

**[First Level—Barts' Research laboratory; 12:29pm]**

In the lab, the eccentric man was working when a knock came at the door. He either addressed it or spoke for whoever it was to enter. The door opened anyway, revealing Mike Stamford and John Watson. He peered away from his work to look at them before proceeding again without a word.

"..Bit different from my day." John noted, observing the place.

His old colleague chuckled. "You've no idea!"

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" the apathetic man asked suddenly, "There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?" queried the portly man.

"I prefer to text." came his simple reply.

"..Sorry, it's in my coat." Mike said after searching.

"Er, here..use mine." Watson offered politely then, removing his  _Sidekick_.

The dark-haired man addressed him for the first time. "Oh, thank you." He stood then and walked over to take it.

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson." Stamford introduced. The man took the phone with not so much as a 'nice to meet you' or 'I'm..or My name is..' He began texting when questioning,

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John blinked, taken back by the out-there question all the while Mike watched with a knowing smirk.

"Sorry?"

Light blue eyes glanced at him."Which was it, in Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you—"

"Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you." The timid woman came in then with his requested coffee at last. The phone was handed back to John as he took the drink from her.

"What happened to the lipstick?" he pondered to her.

"It wasn't working for me." she stated, smiling lightly.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement." The man turned away, returning to his lab station. "Your mouth's too small now."

"Okay." Hopper said quietly before leaving.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Watson glanced at the retreating Molly and then Stamford before realizing he was the one being talked to.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking." he was informed, "And sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" The man looked towards the doctor with a smile. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"You told him about me?" John asked his colleague.

The portly man shook his head. "Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did. Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for." the eccentric man declared; now placing on his coat and scarf. "Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" the veteran inquired, serious.

His question went unanswered. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. We ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He headed for the door.

"Is that it?"

"Is that what?" the man turned back to John.

"We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?" he blandly stated.

"Problem?" the stranger asked simply.

Watson gave Mike a disbelieving smile before saying, "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan." the man rambled quickly off, "I know you've got a brother worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife." His light-colored eyes drifted to his leg and cane. "And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" John was left speechless.

The man went to leave again before doing so, lastly added, "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked at him. "Afternoon."

The doctor glanced at Stamford. "Yeah. He's always like that." he told before his colleague even asked.

**-TBC-**

 


	2. Consulting Holmes

 

**[John and Marisol's flat; 1:36pm on January 28th]**

Once back home an hour later, the first thing John did was sit on his bed and had a contemplating thought. He then received his phone and went to his messages.

Messages- ~~Received~~

-  **Sent**

If brother has a green ladder

arrest brother.

SH

" _What does that mean?"_ Watson thought,  _"What the bloody hell does that man do?"_  He decided to try and find anything on the internet about a 'Sherlock Holmes.'

* * *

**[Location Unknown]**

A woman dressed all in pink slowly crouched down and picked up the suicide pill bottle from the floor. She was the next victim..

* * *

**[John and Marisol's Flat; 5:53pm on January 29th]**

The small stereo on the kitchen counter was playing which meant Marisol was busy cleaning. John would be able to sneak out and meet Sherlock. He hadn't told her about his possible moving out because..he wasn't too sure about it himself. Also, he still didn't know how to tell her. So when her back was turned, he quietly but quickly hurried to the door. Just as he turned the knob, her voice came calling.

"And where are you sneaking off to?" she faced him with a sly smirk, leaning her hip against the counter.

"Sneaking? I'm not sneaking." he lied smoothly, "I'm going for a walk. It'll help my limp."

"Liar. I could tell you're hiding something. You've been increasingly silent and fidgety as the time passed. What have you got to hide from me?"

The older man stared at her before saying defeated, "I'm going to meet a potential flatmate." Her dark eyes widen. "I'm sorry..I just didn't know how to tell you yet."

Her gaze soften understandingly. "It's okay, John." She sighed, running a hand through her wavy locks. "I guess my overbearing attention would be enough to make you want to move out.."

"You know it's not that. I've told you many times why I should leave." A bright smile formed on his face. He seemed to only do that around her—be calm, normal even.

"And you're right. I'm just stubborn is all." the young woman said, "So, you're suppose to meet the person now?"

"Seven, actually." he told, "Thought if I left now, I would make it there in time by cab depending on traffic."

She shook her head. "That won't do. The Tube would be a bit quicker and I'll pay for the trip."

Her godfather narrowed his blue eyes. "There's a catch, isn't there?"

"There always is." Marisol tossed the wet rag she had been using for cleaning in the sink and walked towards her room to change. "I'm coming along. I want to meet this possible flatmate of yours. It'll make me a bit approving of this. Deal?"

"Deal..but there's some things I should warn you about him."

"Things?" She paused and faced him curiously. "What things?"

* * *

**[On the sidewalk in front of 221B Baker Street; 6:57pm]**

"He can read people from just a simple glance?" Vallas repeated, incredulous. "Bollocks!" The two were walking down the sidewalk, having gotten off the Tube. Baker Street was located in Westminster and a thirty-one minute subway ride from their apartment in south-east London. 221B was next door to a cafe called  _Speedy's_ that didn't seem very busy at that moment. The building itself looked out of place for its old fashion design in the heart of London where modern glass buildings were just a ways down the street.

"Keep being skeptical then. But you'll see soon enough." Watson shrugged.

"Look forward to it." deadpanned the young woman, stuffing her hands in her coat pockets. They stepped to the door and John reached to knock with the metal rapper when a voice appeared behind them.

"Hello." The duo turned around to see Sherlock paying a cabbie, having just arrived as well.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes." greeted John politely.

"Sherlock, please." the man told, shaking his hand once in front of them. His lighter-colored gaze drifted to the young woman who stood by John tight-lipped and attentive, becoming withdrawn as she always did with new people. Either said a word as they observed each other. Marisol, he found to be an appealing young woman from her authentic Greek features and held herself together well from her clothing—a designer beige trench coat, a mustard yellow knit sweater over a white collared shirt, slim fitted black trousers with well-kept tennis shoes. She wasn't showy with her obvious beauty, keeping it mostly natural. There was a maternal air to her and she had a belief in God, noted from the rosary wrapped around her wrist that next moment.

Vallas averted her eyes as he continued to stare, tucking some hair behind her ear. His look was very intimidating. As he quickly assessed her, she had done the same briefly. She thought him to be strangely handsome with his intriguing features and clear blue eyes as well as dressed suavely with sophisticated mannerisms. But there was also an evident arrogance and apathetic disregard towards people and things and something else she couldn't quite place her tongue on. So far, she was leery of him. John glanced curiously between them before introducing each other.

"Marisol, this is Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock, this is Marisol Vallas, my goddaughter."

"Evening." Holmes greeted at last. She just nodded, uttering the same. "..You intern for Professor Agatha Montgomery in the English & Comparative Literature Department at  _Goldsmiths_ , no?"

Dark brown eyes blinked, blurting. "How did you—"

" _The crest half hidden by your trench coat on your sweater is of Goldsmiths. I spied the fading ink stain on the bottom of your hand when you tucked your hair. Possibly from writing on a dry board and accidentally smudging the ink several times. You're too young to be qualified as a teacher there yet, so an intern and student is more likely so you can gain more experience. As for being under Professor Montgomery, she is known to have two cinnamon apple air fresher always in her office that are very strong smelling. Someone who tends to spend a lot of time there would happen to carry the scent on them which is coming from the coat you frequently wear due to the fray._ " He smiled at her. "That's how I know." Marisol stood there gaping, absolutely speechless.

John nudged her, smirking. "Told you."

She cleared her throat, composing herself. "You noticed all of that just from looking at me and summed it to that fact?"

"Quite." Sherlock nodded. There were other things he noticed about her—she was obviously shy and wary of new people. She had a nervous habit of either tucking her hair or biting her lip. She doesn't like looking directly into someone eyes for too long and became restlessly when stared at. Though she observed people and things when no one was looking. She was also protective of her godfather and his safe being since possibly having lost a love one before. But he kept all that information to himself, being courteous this time.

"..Awesome." the young woman complimented, blushing faintly at her admittance. A pleased smirk formed on the man's face. It was rare when he got such an honest but kind respond for his gift.

"Well, this is a prime spot." the doctor noted of the building then. "Must be expensive."

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady—she's given me a special deal." the genius stated, knocking on the door and they waited patiently. "Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Wait, sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh, no, I ensured it." he smiled just as the door opened to reveal the old woman. The godchild and parent glanced at each other, surprised at that statement.

"Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson greeted warmly, giving him a hug. He returned it, adding a small kiss on her cheek.

"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson." Holmes introduced once done, "And his goddaughter, Marisol Vallas."

"Hello. Come in." she told them with a tender smile.

"Thank you." they said with a smile of their own, heading inside out of the cold.

* * *

**[221B: Sherlock's room; 7:06pm]**

"Shall we?" Sherlock lead them up a flight of stairs to the second landing. He and the young woman waited by the door for a bit until John, unable to walk quickly due to his limp, finally joined them before opening it. The room itself was pleasant looking noted from its' Victorian styled wallpaper, decorated fireplace, and two tall curtained rectangle-panel windows if not for the cluttering disarray of various stuff all around. Even the adjoined kitchen was in a similar state. The young woman mentally shook her head at the mess, suppressing her instinct to tidy up. But a smirk formed on her pink lips when spying the bull skull wearing headphones on the wall across which she found unique and cool. She stayed put in the doorway though while the two men went inside.

"Well, this could be very nice." John said, peering about the room. "Very nice indeed."

"Yes." agreed his possible flatmate. "Yes, I think so, my thoughts precisely."

"So I went straight ahead and moved in." Sherlock added then.

"—Soon as we get this rubbish cleaned up." John said this at the same time. "Oh. So this is all.." Sherlock began to replace some items. Though he was good at hiding it, he was a bit embarrassed

"Well, obviously I can, ahem, straighten things up a bit." he said smoothly, placing some papers in a box and on the mantel which he held down by stabbing a pocketknife through them.

"That's a skull." pointed John. Marisol perked at the mention of it, coming in for a closer look.

"Friend of mine." the eccentric replied, pausing for a second. "When I say friend.." He trailed off. She now stood in front of it, staring curiously. Shy brown eyes shifted to him, silently asking. He understood from her simple look. "Yes, feel free but with care." Her slender hands gently lifted the skull then, caressing the old bone with light fingertips and a faint smile. The genius stepped away with one as well. There was another but surprising fact about her to add to his memory banks—that like himself, she also had an appreciation for the macabre. Mrs. Hudson had joined the trio.

"What do you think, then, Dr. Watson?" she asked the man. "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two." John told, confused.

"Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts around here." the old woman reassured, "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones." She whispered the last part before going into the kitchen. John blinked, understanding now that she believed he was gay and moving in with Sherlock as his lover not just as a flatmate.

"Pfft." John turned, facing a trying-not-to-laugh Marisol with a blank, unamused expression. She had understood the subtle hint too. She grinned innocently, placing Sherlock's 'friend' back.

"Oh, Sherlock! The mess you've made." Mrs. Hudson scolded when seeing the state of the kitchen. The three got comfortable then—Holmes, having removed his coat and scarf, and was moving about the room. John sat in an armchair and Marisol sitting on the arm of the same chair, staying close to her family.

"I looked you up on the internet last night." informed Watson when he saw Sherlock opening a black laptop on the cluttered table.

"Anything interesting?"

"Found your website.  _The Science of Deduction_."

Sherlock smiled, interested. "What did you think?" He was given a look which made him frown.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie," the doctor quoted, "And an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

The young woman raised a brow.  _"Really? That simple?"_

"Yes." answered the man flatly, "And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

" _Is he talking about Harry?"_  thought Vallas, shocked.

"How?" John inquired, receiving of a smug smirk in response.

"What about these suicides, then, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked suddenly, returning to join them and reading the newspaper. "I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

"Four." he corrected, peering down out the window. There was a police car parked at the curb in front of the apartment now. "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

"A fourth?" she questioned, wondering. He faced the door just as Detective Inspector Lestrade came jogging up the stairs and into the room.

'Where?" Holmes queried, getting to the point.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." the officer responded.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did." Lestrade stated, "Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?" the genius asked.

"Anderson."

He gritted his teeth, angrily glancing away. "He doesn't work well with me." Meanwhile, John and Marisol watched, intrigued by their conversation.

"Well, he won't be your assistant." reassured the Inspector.

"I  _need_  an assistant." stressed Sherlock.

"Will you come?" the other man pleaded, tired of having this back-and-forth banter.

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind."

"Thank you." He sighed in relief, nodded to the group off to the side, and hurried away. Sherlock grinned once he was gone and jumped excitedly in the air.

"Brilliant! Yes!" he exclaimed, gleeful. He did a twirl and refitted himself with his trademark coat and scarf. "Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas. Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." she told as he walked by to receive some things from the kitchen table.

"Something cold will do." he continued, ignoring her. "John, Marisol, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" He disappeared just like that afterwards.

"Look at him, dashing about..My husband was just the same." the old woman noted to the two left. She looked to John. "But you're more of the sitting-down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg." She went to head downstairs.

"Damn my leg!" he suddenly shouted, scaring both women. He quickly calm down. "Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing.." He smacked his limp leg to emphasized.

"I understand, dear, I've got a hip." Mrs. Hudson said, waving his outburst off.

"Cup of tea'd be lovely. Thank you." John stated then, taking the newspaper and getting comfortable now.

"Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em."

"Not your housekeeper!" she reminded strongly while leaving.

"Well, that was all together.. _erratic_." Vallas quietly drawled, unable to come up with a better word than that to sum their first meeting.

"It was, wasn't it?" John said slowly, engrossed in the suicide article.

She glanced at John concernedly. "So you're really going to—"

"You're a doctor." They both startled and looked towards the door to find Sherlock there. His light blue eyes were landed on John. "In fact, you're an Army doctor."

"Yes." he confirmed, standing to address him better.

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths." the genius said smoothly, walking towards him.

"Well, yes." the doctor answered simply.

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much."

'Want to see some more?" Sherlock offered.

"Oh, God, yes." John said with dire zealousness. The young woman gaped up at him, about to disapproved but stopped herself. It was his life and she really needed to stop be so clingy. He had gotten shot and made it back whole.

" _Maybe I need to go to therapy."_  she briefly thought, shaking her head.

"You can come along as well." Holmes informed, making her come out of her inner monologue. "With your appreciation to the macabre, you might enjoy it too. So the offer stands." The two men stepped out of the room afterwards.

She blinked, hurrying after the eccentric man with her eager godfather.  _"It can be a bit frightening how he does that."_

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out." John announced once in the foyer.

"The three of you?" she noted, seeing them all.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them?" Sherlock stated excitedly, grabbing her shoulders and kissing her cheek. "No point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!"

"Look at you, all happy." the old woman smiled, smacking his arm playfully. "It's not decent. Go on then."

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"

* * *

**[Inside a taxi; heading towards Brixton Road; 7:34pm]**

The ride to Lauriston Gardens was mostly silent as John and Marisol kept to themselves and Sherlock texted on his  _Blackberry_. The doctor sat beside him while the young woman was across them, reading a book— _The Hobbit_ —she pulled from her satchel. Watson had glanced at the occupied man several times until finally, he noticed and gave in.

"Okay, you've got questions.." he sighed like there was an unwanted weight on him.

"Yeah, where are we going?" John was given a look that read 'Were you off in the clouds earlier?' But was given an answer anyway.

"Crime scene. Next?" Marisol dog-eared her book then and listened intently.

"Who are you? What do you do?" Watson questioned.

'What do you think?"

"I'd say..private detective."

"But?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives." summed John.

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world." Sherlock explained, rehearsed. "I invented the job."

"What does that mean?" the man beside him queried, puzzled.

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

The doctor chuckled, skeptical of his words. "The police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock frowned and then mentioned out of the blue. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised."

"Yes, how  _did_  you know?" John pressed, wondering if he would finally get an answer.

"I didn't know, I saw." he corrected, beginning once again to prove his talent. " _Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts—so Army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned..but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then._ Wounded in action, suntan—Afghanistan or Iraq." He clicked his tongue when finished, obviously proud of himself.

"You said I had a therapist." added Watson stubbornly.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist." He brought his estranged sibling to the conversation. 'Then there's your brother. Your phone." He held out his hand and was given said item. " _It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. And you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this—it's a gift then._ " He titled the phone so the light in the cab reflected off the touchscreen surface and then showed the back. " _Scratches. Not one, many over time—it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. You wouldn't treat your one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner._  Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving?"

" _Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live._ " Clear blues drifted to the quiet young woman across him. " _Well, at least, not your own place. You've got an extended family—noted Marisol, but not one you're close to in your immediate family. So brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment._ " He was speaking of the little x's in the engraving. " _The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then—six months on he's given it away. If she'd left_ _ **him**_ _, he would have kept it. People do. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left_ _ **her.**_ "

" _He gave the phone to you, so he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but not going to your brother for help. That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife or you don't like his drinking._ "

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John interrupted, astonished as to how he could have known.

Holmes smirked. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though.  _Power connection—tiny little scuffs marks round the edge. Every night he plugs it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them."_ The phone was handed back. "There you go, you see you were right."

" _I_  was right? Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs." he said, emphasizing each word. John stared at his given phone while Marisol stared at Sherlock with wonderment.

"That..was amazing." Watson told, awestruck.

"..Mind-blowing." Vallas blundered simultaneously.

"Do you both think so?" the genius raised brow.

"Of course it was." the veteran said; the young woman agreeing with a vigorous nod. "It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say." noted Sherlock flatly, evidently hearing worse.

"What do people normally say?" John wondered.

"'Piss off!'" was his response with an indifferent smile. John grinned, growing to like his attitude.

"People tend to not want to understand someone more advance than normal." stated Marisol softly, staring down and picking lint off her trousers. "They usually shun and hate them out of envy, leaving them outcasts and more alone with themselves than they really want to. Acceptance is all some ever wish for."

Sherlock stared at her, inwardly stunned. "My thoughts exactly..expect for that last bit."

She met his gaze then, holding it with seriousness. "Everyone wants to be accepted whether they admit it aloud or not. It's human nature."

"Do you want to be?" he asked her.

"Sometimes, don't you?" she replied blunt, tilting her head curiously.

"No." the man answered blankly.

"Liar. Your poker face is by far better than John's but I can see through the tiny cracks in your armor. You're only fooling yourself." The young woman sat back comfortably and faced the window. The two men across her were astonished. Her godfather was for she had been herself—the person he only sees every day—and it didn't take months for her to warm up to this new person before speaking so naturally. The genius was because in a rare moment, he had been surprised by her sudden bluntness. He thought the same as John from how he read her.

Clear blues narrowed with a mischievous smirk.  _"Interesting.."_

**-TBC-**


	3. Dead In Pink

**[Outside the fourth suicide: Brixton, Lauriston Gardens; 7:39pm]**

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock questioned once the trio was out of the car. They had to walk the rest of the way to the scene because of the road being roped off by the police.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have." Watson informed, "Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker."

"Spot on, then." the genius said, delighted. "I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"Harry's short for Harriet." revealed the doctor, making the other man pause.

"Harry's your sister." he said in a dead tone, glancing away annoyed.

"What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John wondered then.

"Sister!" hissed Holmes, walking again.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

He was ignored as his possible flatmate complained bitterly. "There's always something." The group arrived at the police taping and were seen by Sally Donovan.

"Hello, freak." she greeted Sherlock bleakly. The young woman frowned at her, not liking her rudeness. John felt her tension rather than saw and patted her arm calmly.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." he said without so much of a flinch at her insult.

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?" she persisted with a glare.

"I think he wants me to take a look." Sherlock told crisply, meeting her gaze equally.

"You know what I think, don't you?" the woman noted.

The man replied with smugness, going under the tape without her permission. "Always, Sally." He stopped for a moment, catching a whiff of something peculiar. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

She was taken off guard, almost missing Vallas and Watson following him. "Er..who are they?"

"Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson and his assistant, Marisol Vallas." Holmes answered, "Dr. Watson, Marisol, Sergeant Sally Donovan." He said the next part sarcastically. "Old friend."

"A colleague?" she repeated, disbelieving. "How do  _you_  get a colleague?" She looked to John, pointing at the man. "Did he follow you home?"

'Would it be better if we just waited—" John began.

"No." rebuked the genius, lifting the tape again for them.

Sally rolled her eyes before speaking into her walkie. "Freak's here. Bringing him in."

Marisol could stop herself and blurted curtly. "Name calling will get you no where in life. I suspected the police to be a bit more polite to someone assisting them." The older woman turned and glared at her, raising a brow. The younger froze, blushing fiercely. Luckily but surprisingly, Sherlock came to her rescue.

"Pay Donovan no mind, Ms. Vallas. She doesn't have a  _civilize_  bone in her body."

She placed her glare on him instead. "Piss off,  _freak_." With one last glower at the two, she marched off towards the entrance of the crime scene. Marisol let out a breath. What was wrong with her? She'd never do that before..well, not aloud. Twice in less than an hour, she had spoken freely to complete strangers. Brown eyes shifted to the man in front of her. He was smirking. 'Was he the cause of this?' she wondered. They continued on but stopped once again when an arrogant-seeming man dressed in a forensics suit came stepping out, removing his rubber gloves.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." Sherlock said with boredom.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated." the man warned firmly with a mean look, "Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear." the eccentric replied and then stated, "And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out." Philip Anderson said snidely, "Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men."

"Well, of course it's for men—I'm wearing it." declared the other man.

Clear blues landed on the woman behind him. "So's Sergeant Donovan." Anderson faced her with shock while Sherlock sniffed the air. "Ooh..I think it just vaporized." He then asked blankly, "May I go in?" The goddaughter and parent both simpered silently

Philip pointed at him. "Now whatever you're trying to imply—"

"I'm not implying anything." he denied smoothly, walking away with his acquaintances right behind. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happen to stay over." He looked at the accused woman again and she wouldn't meet his eyes; a sign of truth to his assumption. Stopping just before entering the building, he added. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." With a smug smirk, the genius left. Watson walked by, glimpsing briefly at the sergeant's exposed knees with curiosity. Marisol followed, uttering under her breath just loud enough for Sally to hear.

"I guess professional should be added along with the politeness." Another glare was fixed on her retreating back.

* * *

**[Now inside the fourth suicide; 7:42** **pm]**

The police and forensics made base in one of the rooms on the first floor of an aged, uninhabited Victorian styled housing. Upon stepping into the room, Lestrade was there getting into one of the blue forensic suits.

"You'll need to wear one of these." Sherlock told John, gesturing to a folded one on a table.

"Don't I need to as well?" Vallas asked him softly.

"No, as long as you promise to stay off to the side like a good girl." smiled tightly the genius.

"Uh..sure." she agreed willingly. She liked the macabre and just seeing a dead body was enough for her. She'd leave the touching and closeness for him and John.

"Who're they?" Lestrade questioned, staring at the strangers.

"They're with me." Holmes replied simply, replacing his leather gloves for rubber.

"But who are they?" pressed the other man.

"I said they're with me." he was told with a firm voice and stare. The Inspector left it alone.

"Aren't you going to put one on?" Watson asked Sherlock when spying him only placing on gloves. He was also fixed with a firm stare and dropped the subject, doing as he was instructed before. The young woman made mentally note not to say a word unless asked or necessary then.

"So where are we?" the consulting detective inquired.

"Upstairs." Once everyone was ready, the four headed up. "I can give you two minutes."

"May need longer."

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

When they were lead inside the room, the victim was there for all to see, not covered by a sheet since her death wasn't on a high level of gruesome. No, the woman—dressed all in monstrous pink from her manicured nails to stiletto shoes—just seem to be pass out from the way she laid. She was face down on her stomach with both arms bent at an angle next to her head. Her legs though appeared, to Marisol, oddly positioned—they were very close together and straight. She believed that if someone who had taken those pills mentioned in the paper would have been found in a more sprawled or coiled position, not one that looked posed. She kept this information to herself and let the genius do his work.

Said person stared at the body for a moment before suddenly blurting to Lestrade, "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking. It's annoying." he stated sharply. The officer looked at the two strangers who were stun just as he. They then watched Holmes slowly approach the body. His gaze was drawn to the floorboards by the woman's left hand.  _'Rache_ ' had been scratched; noted from the chipped nail polish on the pointer and middle fingers.

_left-handed_

_Rache_

_german (n.) revenge -_

_f_

_p_

_Rache(l)_

The man crouched by the body, swiping a hand across the back of her coat. He looked at his glove.

— _wet_

Next in her coat pocket, a small umbrella was removed.

— _dry_

Under the collar of her coat was the same as his previous observation—wet. Using a small magnifying glass, the gold bracelet on her left wrist and earring on her right ear were examined which looked clean and well-kept; the necklace also. But upon seeing the rings on her ring finger from the chipped nailed hand, a plain gold band was dirty.

_unhappily_

_married_

~~_13_ ~~

_10+_

_years_

Removing the wedding band and peering at the inside, it was surprisingly shiny and clean like her other jewelry. It was placed back on with a new note added—

_regularly removed_

All together equaled with the jewelry facts to which he finished with a smirk—

_**serial adulterer** _

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked then.

"Not much." Holmes replied, standing and get rid of his gloves.

"She's German." a voice came behind them in the doorway. It was Anderson. " _Rache._  It's German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us—"

"Yes, thank you for your input." Sherlock said in an uninterested tone, striding over and closing the door in his face all while peering at his phone.

The Inspector looked to the eccentric. "So she's German?"

"Of course she's not." he denied, checking the UK Weather.

_UK Weather_

_-_ _**Maps**  
_

_- ~~Local~~_

_- ~~Warnings~~_

_- ~~Next 24 hrs~~_

_- ~~7 day forecast~~_

" _She's from out of town though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff_ —so far, so obvious."

Watson blinked. "Sorry, obvious?"

"What about the message, though?" Lestrade wondered but was interrupted by Sherlock.

"Dr. Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?"

"Of the body. You're a medical man."

"Whoa, we have a whole team outside." noted the officer.

"They won't work with me." brushed off the genius.

"I'm breaking every rule letting  _you_  in here—"

" _Yes_ , because you need me."

"..Yes, I do." the other man unfortunately agreed, "..God help me."

"Dr. Watson!" Sherlock shouted.

"Hm?" Said person glanced at the officer questioningly though.

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself." he told, defeated before leaving the three. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.." The doctor and eccentric moved over towards the body then, crouching on either side.

"Well?" Holmes uttered.

"What am I doing here?" queried the man across him instead.

"Helping me make a point." was whispered back.

"I'm supposed to help you pay the rent."

"Well, this is more fun."

"Fun?" John motioned to the dead body between them. "There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis," Sherlock complimented, "But I  _was_  hoping you'd go deeper." The two stared at each other until Lestrade returned. John got to worked, carefully lowering himself to lean near the dead woman's face. He quietly sniffed before moving away. He checked her right wrist and hand quickly and then lifted himself up.

"Yeah..Asphyxiation..probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure. Possibly drugs."

"You know what it was, you've read the papers." the genius called out with a disappointed glare.

"Well, she's one of the suicides. The fourth..?" John weakly defended.

"Sherlock, two minutes, I said." Lestrade told, crossing his arms. "I need anything you've got."

"All right, my turn." Sherlock said then, " _Victim is in her late 30s. Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in Londonfor one night from the size of her suitcase._ "

"Suitcase?" repeated Lestrade, incredulous.

"Yes.  _She's been married at least ten years, but not happily._ " he confirmed, now standing and peering as well as walking about the room. " _She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married._ "

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up—"

" _Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside, so it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or who does she remove her rings for? Clearly, not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them._  Simple."

"That's brilliant." blinked the young woman. He raised a brow to which she flushed and promptly apologized.

The Inspector then mentioned, "Cardiff?"

"it's obvious, isn't?"

"It's not obvious to me." John being the one to reply. Marisol nodded, coming to stand by him.

He looked at all presented with him in the room, shocked. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." His hand pointed to the woman then. " _ **Her coat**_ _—it's slightly damp, she's been in heavy rain in the last few hours—no rain anywhere in London in that time, Under her coat collar is damp too. She's turned it up against the wind._ "

" _She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket, but it's dry and unused. Not just wind, strong wind—too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have traveled more than two or three hours, because her coat still hasn't dried. So where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time._ " He removed his Blackberry from his inside coat pocket and showed the screen to Lestrade and John. " _ **Cardiff.**_ "

"That's fantastic.." Watson praised, awestruck once more.

"Do you know you both do that out loud?" the eccentric noted to his new acquaintances quietly.

"Sorry, we'll shut up."

"No, it's..fine." he told softly.

"Why did you keep saying suitcase?" stated the officer then, interrupting their conversation.

"Yes, where is it?" The genius went in search for the item around the room. "She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing Rachel?"

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German!" he said with satire, "Of course she was writing Rachel, no other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"So how do you know she had a suitcase?" questioned the other man.

" _Back of her right leg. Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes—conscious—could only be an overnight bag so we know she was staying one night."_  He knelt to examined her legs again. "Now where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case." Lestrade informed him.

Sherlock slowly looked up at him. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case." he stressed, "There was never any suitcase."

Holmes rushed out of the room, shouting. "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" The others followed.

"Sherlock, there was no case!" the Inspector firmly told.

"But they take the poison themselves, they chew, swallow the pills." the eccentric reasoned excitedly, stopping on the stairs down. "There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them." He continued rushing down the steps.

"Right, thanks. And..?"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how. But they're not suicides, they're serial killings." He clapped his hands and smiled elatedly. "We've got a serial killer. Love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade inquired with confusion.

"Her case. Come on, where is her case?" emphasized Sherlock, "Did she eat it? Someone else was here and they took her case." He paused, staring off. "So the killer must have driven her here. Forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left it there." noted John.

"No, she never got to the hotel." rejected the man below. "Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..Oh..Oh!"

"Sherlock? What is it, what?" the Inspector asked.

"Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!"

"Oh, we're done waiting. Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff." he ordered, "Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

"Of course, yeah—but what mistake?!"

"Pink! And Marisol, come outside with me now!"

"W-What?! Why?" the young woman questioned, baffled.

"Just come on!" She rolled her eyes and muttered words in Greek before complying.

"Marisol!" called her godfather with surprise.

"Don't worry, Watson! She's in good hands!" came Sherlock's voice from down below. John instantly didn't think so; that statement not settling well on his stomach. The Inspector and forensics team went back to work afterwards, leaving him to fend for himself.

* * *

**[Back outside the fourth murder suicide: Brixton, Lauriston Gardens; 8:10pm]**

Once making it down to the first floor and removing the containment materials from himself, Watson headed outside, thinking Sherlock and Marisol were waiting on him..They weren't. The two had disappeared from the crime scene without him. Stubbornly believing they hadn't, he walked around the taped off area in search.

"He's gone." He turned to see Donovan standing not far from where he was by a police car.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" John questioned.

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that." she informed, "The cheeky girl was with him."

"Is he coming back?"

"Didn't look like it."

He nodded, not really surprised. "Right..Yes. Sorry, where am I?"

"Brixton." the woman answered, raising a brow.

"Do you know where I could get a cab?" the doctor asked, "It's just, er..well.." He glanced down at his limp. ",,my leg."

"Er..try the main road." Sally offered, lifting the tape for him.

"Thanks." The man went under and was on the other side when she suddenly said,

"But you're not his friend. Either is the girl. He doesn't  _have_  friends. So who are you?"

He turned to face her again, replying honestly. "I'm..I'm nobody. I just met him, me and her."

"Okay, bit of advice, then." the sergeant proposed, "Stay away from that guy."

"Why?"

"You know why he's here?" No response was given. "He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what?..One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body, and he'll be the one that put it there."

"Why would he do that?" John pondered, thinking all what she said was a bit outlandish.

"Because he's a psychopath." she plainly stated, "Psychopaths get bored."

"Donovan!" Lestrade called her then.

"Coming." Said person walked away but paused, glancing back at Watson over her shoulder. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes." He shook his head once she was gone and headed towards the main road alone. But the ringing of a phone halted him at that moment. Peering to his right, a payphone stood which was the source. Instead of answering, he glanced at his watch and sighed, hurrying on his way. The ringing stopped just as he left..

**-TBC-**


	4. Hidden Baggage

**[Main street: Brixton; 8:18pm]**

"Taxi! Taxi.." John tried to hail one but none were noticing him. Finally deciding to give up, he continued walking. But when passing by a small restaurant store front, a telephone begun ringing; similar to the payphone earlier. He stopped and watched as a worker went to answer but it abruptly finished. It was starting to seem strange to the man but like before, chose to ignore it and continue on until passing another phone booth which rang. Now, it was absolutely creepy and suspicious. Curiosity getting the better of him, he went inside and answered.

"Hello?"

An unknown male voice responded. " _There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?_ "

"Who's this?" No answer but either a dial tone was heard. "Who's speaking?"

" _Do you see the camera, Dr. Watson?_ "

He looked then, spying the object. "Yeah, I see it."

" _Watch.._ " The camera moved, turning in the opposite it had been momentarily. " _There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?_ "

"..Mm-hm." It moved also.

" _And finally, at the top of the building on your right._ " the voice stated. Deep blue eyes looked and saw that one too do the same as the others previously.

"How are you doing this?" questioned Watson.

But all he was told was, " _Get into the car, Dr. Watson._ " A black painted and dark tinted modern Cadillac pulled up to the curb in front of him. The driver stepped out and opened the back door. " _I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you._ " The call was then ended. Knowing he had no choice, John complied calmly but underneath was tensed and cautious as an animal that was usually prey.

* * *

**[Destination Currently Unidentified; 8:25pm]**

He wasn't alone as he thought would be for the strange ride. A beautiful woman sat beside him but was too engrossed with her phone and texting someone. It briefly reminded him of Sherlock on their ride coming to Brixton.

"Hello." he greeted at last.

"Hi." she surprisingly answered back with a kind smile. No more words were exchanged on her end.

"What's your name, then?"

"Er..Anthea."

"Is that your real name?"

She glanced at him with a smirk. "No."

"I'm John." he told her.

"Yes. I know." the woman said matter-of-fact.

"Any point in asking..where I'm going?" She gave him a look that was usually given to a puppy that did something stupid but cute.

"None at all..John."

"Okay." The doctor stopped talking all together afterwards. The drive was exceedingly long and when the car at last stopped and he was allowed to step out, his location didn't really give him answers as to why he was there except something terrible might happen. He had been dropped off at a closed warehouse of some kind and a dapper looking man stood waiting for him with a chair a few steps in front of him.

He pointed at it with an umbrella he had been using like a cane. "Have a seat, John."

"You know, I've got a phone." Watson stated, walking over gradually. "I mean, very clever and all that, but er..you could just phone me.  _On my phone_." He finished his subtle complaint, standing closely but respectably a distance from the suspicious person.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes," the mysterious man informed, "One learns to be discreet, hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't want to sit down." he rejected the offer crisply.

"..You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening."

The stranger chuckled. "Yes..the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" He got to business then, no longer amused. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one." John replied, "I barely know him. I met him..yesterday."

"Mmm, and since yesterday, you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together." the man noted, "Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

John glared, "Who are you?"

"An interested party." he was told cryptically.

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy." promptly replied the peculiar stranger.

"An enemy?" repeated the doctor, skeptical.

"In  _his_  mind, certainly." he said, "If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his  _arch-enemy_..He does love to be dramatic."

"Well, thank God  _you're_  above all that." the veteran stated with sarcasm. An unamused look was given then and the sound of a text message alert from John's phone as well. Pulling it from his pocket, he read the text;

_Baker Street._

_Come at once_

_if convenient._

_SH_

"I hope I'm not distracting you."

"Not distracting me at all." drawled John before placing the phone away.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked of him.

"I could be wrong..but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be."

"It really couldn't."

"If you do move into, um.." The stranger reached into his coat for a small tan handbook. He flipped a few pages until finding the one he wanted. "..221B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way." The book was put away again.

"Why?" queried Watson suspiciously.

"Because you're not a wealthy man." he correctly noted.

"In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel..uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

" _Why?_ "

"I worry about him." the stranger responded, "Constantly."

John was slightly surprised by the concern. "..That's nice of you."

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a.. _difficult relationship._ " Another text message alert sounded. The next text said;

_If inconvenient,_

_come anyway._

_SH_

"..No." the doctor refused the offer.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure." the man pressed smoothly.

"Don't bother."

"You're very  _loyal_  very quickly."

"No, I'm not, I'm just not interested."

The little tan book was shown again. "'Trust issues', it says here."

Blond brows furrowed at it. "What's that?"

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?" the mysterious stranger pondered.

"Who says I trust him?" denied the veteran, increasingly becoming annoyed.

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily..especially after the death of your goddaughter, Marisol's father."

He was livid now. "Are we done?"

His steely gaze was met with a calm one. "You tell me." John stared at him for a long moment before turning away, having had quite enough of him to bare any longer. "..I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen." He paused and shook his head, facing the man again.

"My what?"

"Show me." Watson thought about telling him off but chose against it. The quicker he did as the stranger said, the quicker he could leave and put this bizarre event behind him. So his left hand was raised for viewing. The man closed the short distance between them and reached for said extremity.

The doctor drawn it back, saying with warning. "Don't." He was given a hard look to which he obeyed. The hand was gently held and turned to the side slightly before released.

"Remarkable."

"What is?"

"Most people blunder round this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars." the peculiar stranger stated, "When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?" the doctor asked composedly.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." answered the man, speaking nothing new that John didn't already know. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

John was becoming defensive now, snapping. "Who the hell are you?" The person raised a brow and he calmed himself once more. "How do you know that?"

"Fire her." he was told instead, "She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now, and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson.. _You miss it._ " Said person froze.

" _You miss it, don't you?..The war, the chaos?"_ Marisol had said the same the day before..and it was true. He missed the danger, the adventure..whether he admitted it aloud or not.

The stranger leaned forward some, whispering. "Welcome back." He walked away then, leaving John to his thoughts. His cell phone beeped; another text. "..Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson."

"I'm to take you home." Watson looked to find 'Anthea' behind him, still texting. Instead of replying, the new message was checked.

_Could be dangerous._

_SH_

Deep blue eyes peered at his left hand, studying it.

"Address?"

"Er, Baker Street. 221B Baker Street." John finally answered, "..But I need to stop off somewhere first."

* * *

**[Sherlock's Flat; 8:43pm]**

Marisol sat comfortably with her legs tucked under her in the old red arm chair at Sherlock's apartment, listening to music on her iPhone. The two had made it back, after doing some hands-on investigating, almost an hour ago after leaving the crime scene. Holmes had texted John three times earlier to come there and still had no reply. She was trying not to panic, thinking positive thoughts and keeping herself busy with her music. But her brown eyes would shift briefly over to the couch on the other side of the flat. The eccentric laid there with hands steeple under his chin, appearing asleep but was in fact thinking.

"What's the story between you and Anderson?" the young woman asked suddenly, believing he wouldn't hear nor respond.

"It's simple. Anderson is an idiot." the man replied with eyes still closed, "And he annoys me because of it."

She raised a brow, "How exactly does he annoy you?"

Sherlock ranted, "By being an attention hog, always butting in and failing to be intelligent since clearly he has an IQ lower than a squirrel."

"Touchy subject, huh?" Vallas tightly smiled.

"Why did you ask if you knew?" Holmes glanced at her then.

A shrug was given. "Just trying to make small talk, I guess. Heh, I'm not very good at it obviously."

"A common trait of the introverted." he stated matter-of-fact.

"..Yeah.." she murmured, glancing down and fiddling with her phone. Suddenly, Sherlock was standing and over by her before she could blink. His hands rested on the chair's arms, trapping the young woman, and his face leaned slightly in. Their abrupt closeness made her breath held and those piercing blue eyes of his kept her frozen to the spot.

"But the real you is trapped inside," he drawled, sounding oddly alluring. "Gradually clawing its' way out though you desperately keep pushing it back in."

"The-the real me?" she repeated, flabbergasted. "What are you on about? I'm—"

"—Lying to yourself. There's a fierceness to you. A liberated side that cares not what the world thinks from her words or actions."

Vallas strongly denied, "There is no such thing in me."

"You're not only here to look after Watson." the genius informed, "In the beginning, that was your obvious resolve but now, as the night drags on, you're becoming transfixed with what's occurring. The adventure, the risk, the mystery of the case— _you like it._ " His curl dark haired head tilted in a curious fashion. "Your godfather too..For no blood relation, you two are oddly similar."

"You're hiding something too." the young woman countered coolly. The air was growing tense by the second and slowly becoming a need to out best each other. "You aren't the only one to read people well. I can see the madness behind all that smart of yours. You don't know how to switch off and the knowing of everything and needing to be right is making you and has caused it."

"A true introvert would want to be left alone in their world, not accepted by the billions in this reality. You're an extrovert but are afraid to reveal who you are because you believe even then you won't be. You're scared of being called a freak." She said nothing, glaring hotly at him. He slightly smirked; a soft spot had been struck.

The man simply moved away with a shrug, adding a finishing blow. "I don't understand why it matters. Even if you do, you'll still be  _plain_  compared to most."

" _Shut your bleeding mouth!_ " Marisol snapped venomously. Dark brown eyes widen and quickly turned away; filled with contrite. No further response was given, so he went and fiddled with his violin then. A taut silence filled the room for several minutes.

"..I can see why most people tell you to piss off."

"Pray tell." the eccentric told softly, plucking random strings.

The writer looked at him. "You speak only truth. People aren't ready for it..I wasn't." She glanced down, smirking humorlessly. "There's only three people I know that could easily read me—my father, my grandmother, and John."

Sherlock raised a brow. "And your point?"

"Now, I can say there's four." Marisol stated before meeting his gaze again with a glare. "But just because I did, doesn't mean I fully trust you to be in my inner circle." She looked away with a chagrined blush, muttering. "Though I have a feeling I'll have a decision by the end of all this."

"I look forward to your choice then, Ms. Vallas." Holmes smirked, having heard.

* * *

**[John(?)and Marisol's Flat; 9:15pm]**

The reason for John coming there was simple—to retrieve his handgun. He neither fired or touched it in months since returning to London. But from Sherlock's texts and the situation the three were all currently involved in, there was no telling how it might possibly end. So if it turned bad, Watson would be at least well prepared. So tucking it in the waistband of his pants behind his back, hidden thanks to his coat, he left to proceed to Baker Street.

* * *

**[221B Baker Street: 9:39pm]**

Arriving back at Baker Street, Watson unbuckled himself but he didn't get out right away.

"Listen, your boss," he said to 'Anthea,' "Any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?"

"Sure." she agreed kindly.

"You've told him already, haven't you?" the man deadpanned.

"Yeah." the texting woman admitted.

The doctor opened the door but paused, "Hey, um..do you ever get any free time?"

She chuckled, "Oh, yeah. Lots." A long pause filled the air afterwards until she looked at him. " _Bye._ " John got the point and stepped out finally.

" _Smooth, Watson, Real smooth."_  he thought bitterly as the car drove away.

This was what John walked in and first saw: Sherlock was now found back on the couch with one sleeve rolled up to the elbow and his left arm bent at a right angle; hand clenched in a fist. He was pressing something on his skin. Clear blues opened as a slow exhale escaped him. Marisol, having changed her position in the arm chair, now sat upside down while playing  _Words with Friends_.

He addressed Sherlock first. "What are you doing?"

"Nicotine patch." The eccentric showed his arm, revealing three of them. "Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

"It's good news for breathing." noted John.

"Oh, breathing! Breathing's boring." Holmes complained. Watson just then noticed something peculiar about his arm, moving closer to see.

"Is that..three patches?!"

"He said it's a three-patch problem when I asked." informed Marisol blankly, looking away from her game and smiling at her godfather. "Hi, John. Glad to see you made it back in one piece."

"And why are you upside down?" he questioned, bewildered.

"I suggested that she should hang upside down when playing her  _Words for Friends_." stated Sherlock, closing eyes again as he steeple his hands under his chin. "Blood rushing to the head is a good way to assist in quick thinking because of the increased bioavailability of oxygen and glucose, the two most important metabolic substrates for the brain."

"Surprisingly, he was right. I'm on my third win." Watson looked from the other man to her, absolutely baffled. Again, it was unusual the swift understanding between the two misfits.

He peered at the contemplative Holmes. "..Well?" No response. "You asked me to come, I'm assuming it's important."

The genius woke with a small jump, remembering. "Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?" the doctor repeated.

"Don't want to use mine. Always a chance that my number will be recognized. It's on the website."

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."

"Yeah, she's downstairs." said Sherlock heedlessly, "I tried shouting, but she didn't hear."

"I  _was_  the other side of London." noted John with irritation, "And Marisol's right here with hers."

"There was no hurry." stated the other man, "And she refused incessantly of the use of hers for what I have planned." Watson stared at him blankly before just pulling out his phone.

"Here." Sherlock held out his right hand and the phone was dropped onto it. His hands were steeple and he was back in meditation mode again.

"So what's this about—the case?" the veteran queried, meaning the demand for his phone.

"Her case.." he was corrected.

" _Her_  case?"

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously." Holmes told, slightly snappy. "The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake."

"Okay, he took her case. So?"

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it." the eccentric uttered to himself then addressed John, "On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text." The cell was offered back.

"You've brought me here..to send a text." Watson said slowly.

"Text, yes. The number on my desk." Once his phone was taken, John hesitated, peering around the room briefly before going to the window.

"Something the matter?" asked the young woman slowly, moving wobbly to stand. All that blood rushing to her head made her off-balance.

"Just met a friend of yours, Sherlock." he replied, looking outside.

"A friend?" said man repeated, confused.

"An enemy." John rectified himself.

"Oh." Sherlock calmed down then. Enemies he was used to but friends were a whole different story. "Which one?"

The godfather and child peered at him, thinking for a moment.  _"He has more than one?"_

"Well, your arch-enemy, according to him." Watson declared, "Do people have arch-enemies?"

The genius glanced where he stood, saying softly. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity, we could have split the fee." Holmes noted, disappointed. He then chastised, "Think it through next time."

"Who was he?" Vallas pondered with curiosity.

"The most dangerous man he's ever met and not my problem right now."

She muttered, rolling her dark eyes. "Oh, that's helpful and frightening.."

He narrowed his eyes at her before telling John again, "On my desk, the number!" The doctor went to the messy table, finding the tiny slip of paper at the end on top of a file folder. He read what was written.

"Jennifer Wilson. That was..Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

The other man was meditating once more. "Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number..Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it?"

"Yeah, hang on!" Watson snapped, not liking to be rushed and ordered around. He shook his head, finishing.

"These words exactly." the eccentric advised, "'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street, please come.'"

The doctor stopped, "You blacked out?"

"What? No..No!" The genius rapidly got up, stepped on and over the coffee table, and headed into the kitchen. "Type and send it. Quickly." He came back with a small pink carry-on suitcase. "Have you sent it?"

"What's the address?"

"22 Northumberland Street. Hurry up!" Grabbing a chair from his desk, he placed it in front of the leather arm chair and the case on top before taking a seat himself.

_What happened at Lauriston Gdns?_

_I must have blacked out_

_22 Northumberland St_

_Please come_

The text was finished and sent. The sound of a zipper made John glance over his shoulder. Sherlock had unzipped the case and stared thoughtfully at its' contents full of womanly items.

"That's.." he paused, "That's the pink lady's case, that's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously." Sherlock said. John just stared, making him sigh with botheration. "Oh, perhaps I should mention— _I_ didn't kill her."

"I never said you did." Watson noted.

"Why not?" Holmes contradicted, "Given that text and the fact I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

Marisol questioned then, "Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

He smirked before changing his position in the chair—now squatting. "Now and then, yes."

"..Okay.." the doctor said and went to sit in the unoccupied red chair across the eccentric. "How did you get this?"

"By looking."

"Where?"

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens." the genius expressed, "He could only keep her case by accident if it was in a car. Nobody could be seen with this without drawing attention—particularly a man, which is statistically more likely."

"Yeah, it's said totaling all the serial killers around the world, the percentage is largely male." the young woman added from her spot by the desk, leaning against the edge with crossed arms. "There are females ones but their numbers are greatly low."

"How do you know this?!" exclaimed her godfather.

She easily replied, "Research. I did a paper on various serial killers for my Psychology class in secondary school."

"So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it." Sherlock continued, "Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. Marisol and I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took us less than ten minutes to find the right skip."

What he didn't go further into details with was that the two had gotten on top of a roof to another abandon building in the area for better viewing point first. Then went to every backstreet with that description and searched separately to cover more ground. Sherlock had been the one to find the case in a dumpster filled with black garage bags and other rubbish. Afterwards, they hurriedly came back to Baker Street.

"Pink. You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?" inquired Watson.

"It had to be pink, obviously."

"Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're an idiot." the other man stated brusquely. John looked at him in offense. "No, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is."

"He said that same thing to me," reassured the young woman, waving a dismissive hand. "When I asked what we were looking for earlier and replied as you did."

"Yes, but you automatically slapped me when I did and before I could further explain." added Holmes in a dead tone.

Marisol flushed with embarrassment. "I said it was a reflex and apologized! Let it go, man!"

Clear blue eyes rolled and asked the veteran, "Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case?" John said, "How could I?"

"Her phone. Where's her mobile phone?" Sherlock stressed, "There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one. That's her number there you just texted."

"Maybe she left it at home."

The eccentric sat normal then. "She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home."

"Er.." Watson paused, peering at his phone on the arm. "Why did I just send that text?"

"Well, the question is where is her phone now?"

"She could have lost it." reasoned the other man.

"Yes, or?" the genius pressed him.

"The murderer..You think the murderer has the phone?" the doctor answered accurately.

"Maybe she..left it when she left her case." he was told, "Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."

"Sorry..what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?" His phone rang then. He peered at the calling screen.

_(withheld)_

_calling_

The writer covered her mouth, shocked. "Oh, my god..he's really calling.."

"A few hours after his last victim," Sherlock said in a low tone, "And now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer.." The case was slapped shut then. "..would panic." He stood, grabbing his suit jacket before heading to the door.

"Have you talked to the police?" John asked him.

"Four people are dead, there isn't time to talk to the police."

"Then why are you talking to  _us_?"

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull." Holmes replied, sounding like a child. His ever-present coat and scarf were retrieved next from a door hanger.

"So we're basically filling in for your skull?" Marisol scoffed.

"Relax, you're both doing fine." encouraged the eccentric, "Well?"

"Well,  _what_?" queried Watson.

The genius suggested with a grimace. "Well..you could just sit there and..watch telly—"

The doctor interrupted. "You want us to come with you?"

"You, yes. Ms. Vallas is already onboard." It was true for the young woman already had her coat and satchel back on as well. "Plus, I like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so.." He smirked and his two new acquaintances did the same, amused. "Problem?"

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan."

"What about her?"

"She said you get off on this, you enjoy it." he noted.

"And I said ' _dangerous_ ', and here you are." the other man countered smoothly, leaving the room.

"He has a point." said his goddaughter, agreeing.

"And you're all for the dangerous lifestyle now?" the veteran questioned, narrowing his deep blue eyes. "Especially after you being protective and wanting nothing bad to happen of me."

She looked at him with a fierce seriousness. "It's what  _you_  wanted. Needed, even. You're slowly becoming yourself again. Now, I'm still that and want you safe but to do so, I have to jump on the band wagon as well." A cocky grin formed on her pink lips. "Plus, who else is going to watch your six better than me?" They stared at each other for a moment.

"Damn it!" cursed John, hating to agree and follow along in this madness once more. He stood and the two hurried after Holmes.

**-TBC-**


	5. Cab Chase

**[Destination: Northumberland Street; 9:54pm]**

"Where are we going?" asked Watson as the trio walked the crowded streets of London's nightlife. Sherlock and John walked side by side while Marisol hanged in the back but stayed close enough to hear.

"Northumberland Street's a five minute walk from here." Holmes replied.

Marisol questioned, "You think he's stupid enough to go there?"

"No, I think he's brilliant enough." noted the eccentric, thrilled. "I love the brilliant ones. They're all so desperate to get caught."

"Why?"

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight." they were told dramatically at first before he calmed, "It's the frailty of genius, John and Marisol, it needs an audience."

"Yeah.." The two drawled together.

"This is his hunting ground. Right here in the heart of the city." Sherlock said, "Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go."

"Come on, think!" he shouted to himself suddenly, "Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

"Don't know. Who?" John queried.

"Haven't the faintest." the other man said promptly, "Hungry?" They crossed the street then. Meanwhile, the young woman pondered over what he said until something black passed by in the street and the answer immediately came to her, blurting.

"A cab!" She snapped her lips shut, doe eyes big. The men paused in front of an Italian restaurant and turned. John raised a quizzical brow and Sherlock narrowed his eyes with curiosity.

"Details." the genius ordered firmly. Vallas gulped nervously. Too many eyes were on her and her mind was becoming frazzled. "Marisol." She looked to him again. He said softly that time. "Details,  _please_." Her curly brown haired head nodded, more confident and having a need to prove herself.

"..Well, the murderer must use a cab because it's perfect and no ones suspects anything malicious. People share cabs with strangers all the time and never think twice about it." she suspected casually, "Now, how I think he does it— _he must wait in the crowd until finding the victim he wants and then follows them when they go into one. He probably then pretends to go wherever they do at first. I don't know how, but he has to get them alone some way. He could stalk the place until seeing them again and corners them, maybe._ "

"Anyway, to sum it up with what we already know,  _once the murderer's got them, he forces them into another cab, goes to a new location, and offs them there with the pills by making them take it themselves to look like a normal suicide._  So.." Her hands were stuffed into her coat pockets then, finishing. "..yeah, that's what I think." John grinned proudly and Sherlock, eyes having closed when listening. When they opened again, an entertained glint was visible in them.

"What a  _nimble_  little girl—" Holmes remarked with a smirk. This introvert-aspire Greek Londoner had become progressively intriguing since their first meeting and he strangely kept wanting to know more and more.

"I prefer the term clever." the writer corrected with a shy smile, "Sounds better, heh."

"—but you're still  _plain_." he deadpanned rudely. She frowned and went to retort harshly when..

" _ANSWER! ANSWER OR BE EXTERMINATED!"_ Her mouth snapped shut and a bright blush tinted her cheeks as Holmes grinned at the noise coming from her hip. It was her personalized ringtone from her phone. With flustered movement, the young woman removed it to peer at the screen and sighed,

"I've got to take this. It's Montgomery, so I'll meet you two inside shortly." With a glare to Sherlock that clearly read 'swipe that grin off your face', she walked away down the sidewalk then, leaving the two. Watson looked at the other man with an unbelieving expression.

"What?" he snapped.

"You have no idea how to talk to a woman, do you?"

"Oh, I do, but I find no point in tiptoeing with them. And I'm only being rude to Marisol because she's good at bantering." He grinned to himself. "It's fun."

"I don't see how that's fun but, word of advice, she's already slapped you." warned John as he followed Holmes inside the restaurant. "Keep it up and you'll be on your knees, grabbing your lower parts."

"Dually noted." the eccentric drawled with indifferent. A waiter by the door noticed him and offered the table by the front window for the two.

"Thank you, Billy...22 Northumberland Street." stated Sherlock once seated, staring at the other side of the road. "Keep your eyes on it."

"He's not just going to ring the doorbell though, is he?" Watson responded, "He'd need to be mad."

"He  _has_  killed four people."

"Okay.." A man with long hair pulled into a low ponytail and a full beard came to their table right then.

"Sherlock!" he greeted, shaking hands before giving them menus. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you and for your date."

"Do you want to eat?" the genius asked his acquaintance, seeming not bothered by what the man just said.

The doctor, however, blinked and speedily denied, "I'm not his date." He was unfortunately ignored.

"This man got me off a murder charge." the ponytail man informed.

"This is Angelo." Holmes at last introduced; all the while staring outside. "Three years ago, I proved to Lestrade, at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, that Angelo was in a different part of town, house-breaking."

"He cleared my name."

"I cleared it  _a bit_. Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing." Angelo answered before saying, "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You  _did_  go to prison." pointed the genius.

"I'll get a candle for the table." the former criminal told, stepping away. "It's more romantic."

"I'm not his date!" stressed the veteran on deaf ears. It was then he noticed his goddaughter standing by the door, having just joined them.

"Your sexuality being misconstrued again, John?" she asked casually, though wanting nothing more than to laugh aloud. Before he could reply, as promised, Angelo returned to put a small candle on their table. He gave the doctor a thumbs-up and left again.

"Thanks.." sighed John while the young woman chuckled and sat with them.

"You may as well eat." Sherlock suggested to both, placing his menu in front of her. "We might have a long wait."

"My, you're being nice. Is this your way of apologizing?" Marisol inquired, sarcastic.

Clear blues briefly glanced her way. "..Perhaps."

"I doubt that." she rejected flatly, observing the menu. "I know you're just messing with me. Getting under my skin to bring out the 'real' me."

"Sorry, what?" Watson said, having no idea what they were going on about.

"I already have." the eccentric declared, looking at her fully. "I've done so since the cab ride to Brixton. Slowly but surely." He peered back at the road. "I was tired of waiting for you to realize."

Brown eyes narrowed suspiciously, "Why were you so adamant on doing such a thing?"

"Because I can't stand people who lie to themselves."

"..You're going to regret that." the writer then smirked, "Sooner or later, Holmes."

"Dually noted, Ms. Vallas." he said, using the same line as to John. Said person just looked back and forth from the two before letting it go, not bothering to understand anymore.

* * *

**[Angelo's Restaurant; 10:15pm]**

"People don't have arch-enemies." the doctor told firmly.

"I'm sorry?" the genius said, having not heard. Their stakeout had lasted for thirteen minutes now and so far all that occurred during it was Marisol and John receiving their food.

"In real life." John informed, "There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

"So who did I meet?"

"What do real people have, then, in their..'real lives'?" queried of the other man.

"Friends?" Vallas replied with a shrug, "People they know, people they like, people they don't like..Girlfriends, boyfriends, that whole gist."

"Yes, well, as I was saying, dull." drawled Sherlock.

The veteran looked at him. "You don't have a girlfriend, then?"

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

"Mm..Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine." Holmes retorted while meeting his gaze, sounding a tad defensive.

"So you've got a boyfriend, then." summed Watson.

"No." he quickly denied. The young woman silently looked between the two and raised a brow.

"Right. Okay." John chuckled humorlessly. "You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good." Silence filled the air then for a few moment. Sherlock replayed that whole conversation again in his head before saying,

"John, um..I think you should know I consider myself married to my work and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any—" Marisol almost choked on her water at his declaration while John adamantly shook his head.

"No, I'm..not asking. No. I'm just saying, it's all fine."

The eccentric stared at him for a second, nodding. "Good..Thank you."

"Goodness.." sighed the writer, "That was all a strange bit of deja vu."

"How so?" Holmes wondered; clear blue eyes back to the street.

"Oh god.." groaned the older man.

"The other day, I told John I had a date early that morning. He asked if it was with a boy and I teasingly replied, it wasn't." She laughed; it sounded honeyed. "He then started rambling like just now how it was fine and everything."

"And was it?"

"What was?"

The younger man peered at her; gaze intently solemn. "Was it a date?"

"A study one, that is. With a girl in one of my classes. I'm not really into girls." Vallas answered. She bashfully looked down and poked at a noddle with her fork. "Plus, I don't date much anyway..though I have had plenty of offers before.."

"So you have a fear of commitment." noted Sherlock simply.

"No." She rolled her eyes, hating how he just assumed. "Most of the ones that have asked me out are either not what I'm looking for or complete jerks. So I've just decided to stop dating and wait til I meet the right guy someday. But if it doesn't happen, so be it. I'll just live alone, I guess." He stared for a few moment with a thoughtful expression. Before she could ask why, he faced the window once more.

"..Look across the street. Taxi. It's stopped." the genius then informed his acquaintances. They looked and sure enough one was just parked with a man alone in the backseat. "Nobody getting in and nobody getting out. Seems you were right, Ms. Vallas. Oh, that is clever."

"That's him." John said, surprised.

"Don't stare." the other man scolded them.

" _You're_  staring." the two proclaimed.

"We can't all stare." Sherlock stood then, hurrying out the building. The writer and doctor scrambled after him, forgetting their unfinished food..and certain walking cane as well.

* * *

Outside, Sherlock stood on the sidewalk, staring at the vehicle still there. The stranger waiting inside happen to look back, right at him, before turning away. A second later, the taxi at last left. The genius wasted no time, focused only on the departing cab. He ran forward just as his new acquaintances came out and was almost hit by car. It managed to break just in time, allowing him to just slide across the hood and continue running.

"Sorry!" Watson apologized as he and Marisol rushed pass. Holmes had stopped, unable to stop the cab in time.

"I've got the cab number." the other man told him as the two came over.

"Good for you." the genius said before mentally picturing a map of the Soho area and rambling off. "Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic light, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights." He looked over at an apartment building just as a tenant was going in. There was his alternative route. Off he was running again, heading towards that person and pushing them out of the way to go inside.

"Oi!" the person shouted angrily.

"So sorry!" Vallas said in a rush as she and Watson went after the eccentric once more. Taking the stairs rapidly all the way to the roof, the trio managed to keep together as they leapt over obstacles here and there and weaved in and out. It was like a game of follow the leader, only fast-paced and full of dangerous elements such as..jumping from rooftops. Sherlock made it to the other side without fault. Marisol ran a little faster before leaping across the gap and landing on the other side with a bit of a stumble. John, on the other hand, skidded to a halt just as he saw the edge.

"Come on, John. We're losing him!" yelled Sherlock while still running. His goddaughter frantically gestured for him to hurry. Gaining resolve, the veteran took the plunge and did so perfectly. The group then proceeded down a fire escape and into an alley. Weaving through a few more, they would reach  _D'Abblay_   _Street_  where the cab was currently turning on. Unfortunately, just as the trio arrived at the end of the alley heading out to that street, the taxi drove by.

"This way!" Holmes informed, turning right. The writer was right behind him but the doctor accidentally went the opposite. "No,  _this_  way!"

"John!" exasperated the young woman.

"Sorry.." he told; in the correct direction now. The new plan was to cut the vehicle off somewhere on  _Wardour_   _Street_ , so they sped down  _D'Abblay_ , turned left on  _Berwick_  while crossing through  _Noel_  before taking another back alley shortcut. This time it worked—all of them coming right when the cab was just about to pass again. The genius jumped in front of taxi, making it stop.

"Police! Open her up." he demanded breathlessly, flashing what looked to be a police badge before heading to the back door. Upon opening it, he came face to face with..an American tourist.

"No.." The eccentric briefly looked away and gritted his teeth with frustration. His acquaintances appeared at his side, peeking inside curiously but tiredly. "Teeth, tan. What, Californian?" He peered down. "LA, Santa Monica. Just arrived."

"How could..you possibly..know that?" asked Marisol wearily, trying still to catch her breath.

"The luggage." There was an  _LAX_  tag on it. Sherlock looked at the man again. "First trip to London, right? Going by your final destination, the route the cabbie was taking you."

"Sorry, are you guys the police?" the tourist questioned, glancing at all three.

"Yeah." Holmes showed him the badge for a second. "Everything all right?"

The stranger smirked slightly, "Yeah."

"..Welcome to London." told the genius with faux kindness before walking away.

Watson quickly popped his head in then. "Er, any problems, just let us know." Vallas wiggled her fingers goodbye with a coy smile and shut the door.

"Basically just a cab that happen to slow down." John noted when he joined Sherlock a few feet away.

"Basically." the other man said flatly.

"Not the murderer unfortunately." huffed Vallas, moving some stray hairs from her face.

"Not the murderer, no." Sherlock agreed, annoyed.

"Wrong country, good alibi."

"As they go."

"Hey, where did you get this?" The doctor took the badge and observed the inside. "..Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah, I pickpocket him when he's annoying." stated the eccentric, "You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat." John began laughing then, earning a puzzled look from the other man. "What?"

"Nothing, just..'Welcome to London.'" smiled Watson. Holmes snickered lightly.

"Um, fellas.." the young woman said suddenly, glancing back in the direction of the cab. A real police officer was currently speaking with the American tourist who pointed at the three that were standing still a ways down.

"Got your breath back?" the genius inquired them.

"Ready when you are." the veteran replied.

"Roger that." answered the writer. They took off running again.

**-TBC-**


	6. Password: Rachel

**[Returned to 221B Baker Street; 10:36pm]**

Out of breath, the unlikely trio arrived once again at their base of operation. They all removed their winter outer-clothing, overheated from their running, and placed them in various spots in the foyer before all leaning against the same wall tiredly.

"That was the most ridiculous thing..I've ever done." panted John.

"And  _you_  invaded Afghanistan." jested Sherlock. They burst out laughing; high on adrenaline still.

"That wasn't just me." Watson smirked, "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

"They can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So what were we doing there?"

"Oh, just passing the time." the genius said dismissively. "And proving a point."

"What point?" the god parent and child questioned, curious.

"You." Holmes replied, meaning John. He then shouted, "Mrs. Hudson! Dr. Watson  _will_  take the room upstairs."

The doctor raised a brow. "Says who?"

"Says the man at the door." A rapping knock came right then. John glanced at the eccentric before going to answer the door, leaving Marisol and Sherlock alone.

"You know, as much as I hate to admit it, that was surprisingly fun." smiled Marisol faintly, "The best I've had in a long time, to be honest, haha."

"Never a dull moment when with me." he said, closing his eyes and still trying to regain his breath.

The young woman started laughing again. "Oh, how absolutely right you are."

The man smirked down at her. "Warming up now, Ms. Vallas?"

She turned towards him with a coy one. "A little bit, Mr. Holmes. A little bit." At the door, the knocking had came from Angelo, the owner of the restaurant they had been in.

"Sherlock texted me." he informed the veteran, "He said you forgot this." His walking cane was offered to him. Blue eyes widen as he took it back, having just remember that he did. But with all the excitement, he completely forgot about it and his so-called disability. He glanced back, finding his goddaughter looking with a shocked but happy expression while the genius just smiled. Sherlock, once again, had said another thing right about him—his limp was indeed psychosomatic.

"Er, thank you. Thank you." John told Angelo politely before returning inside.

Mrs. Hudson came into the foyer now, crying. "Sherlock, what have you done?"

"Mrs. Hudson?" he queried, taken back.

"Upstairs." was all she told. The acquaintances glanced at each other before hurrying to his room. Lestrade was there along with several officers whom were searching the place from top to bottom.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked angrily, approaching the Inspector who was currently lounging in the leather arm chair. His acquaintances stayed by the door.

"Well, I knew you'd find the case, I'm not stupid." the man informed.

"You can't just break into my flat." the genius told.

"You can't withhold evidence—and I didn't break into your flat." countered Lestrade.

Holmes gestured around them. "What do you call this, then?"

"It's a drugs bust."

"Seriously?" John interrupted with disbelief, "This guy—a junkie? Have you met him?"

Said person came over by him. "John—"

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day," he continued adamantly, "You wouldn't find anything you could call recreational." Marisol came over to him, touching his arm. She obviously figured out the truth before he had.

"I think he's got the point.."

"Yes, John, you probably want to shut up now." said Sherlock firmly.

"Yeah, but come on.." He looked at the other man, seeing the seriousness in his face. "No.."

"What?"

"You?"

"Shut up!" Holmes told him harshly then said to Lestrade. "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog." the Inspector corrected, glancing in the kitchen. The trio looked as well. Though it shouldn't have been surprising given the two's history, Sherlock's least favorite person was there among the search party. Said man waved mockingly at them.

"Anderson, what are  _you_  doing here on a drugs bust?"

"Oh, I volunteered." he told with a sneer.

"They all did." declared Lestrade, "They're not strictly speaking on the drug squad, but they're very keen."

"I'm sorry, but you are talking about people,  _not_  dogs." Vallas noted snarkily, crossing her arms.

"Are these human eyes?" Donovan appeared from inside the kitchen, holding a jar of said items.

"I take what I said back a bit." uttered the young woman with a grimace.

"Put those back!" Sherlock ordered.

"They were in the microwave." the sergeant added with disgust.

"It's an experiment." the eccentric stressed, beginning to pace like a caged tiger. His annoyance was growing increasingly and his patience waning by the second.

"Keep looking, guys." Lestrade told the others before addressing Sherlock. "Or you could help us properly, and I'll stand them down."

"This is childish." Holmes muttered as he passed by him.

"Well, I'm dealing with a child." he stated, standing. "Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?"

"So what? You set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

"It stops being pretend if we find anything."

"I am clean!" the genius exclaimed firmly.

"Is your flat?" was inquired of him, "All of it?"

He rolled up one of his sleeves, revealing a nicotine patch. "I don't even smoke."

"Neither do I." Lestrade said, showing him his own matching one. Sherlock looked away with an irritated sigh. "So let's work together. We've found Rachel."

"Who is she?" the other man questioned, looking back at him.

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

"Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Never mind that, we found the case." Anderson interjected, "According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." Sherlock corrected smoothly.

"He's not the murderer. Sherlock and I went searching for it after leaving the crime scene." Marisol defended then, "We found the case abandoned in a dumpster not too far from the place."

"Then that just makes you an accomplice." the other man sneered at her.

She rolled her brown eyes. "My god, Sherlock is right. You are an idiot."

"Hey—"

"Anderson, shut up now." the genius ordered before addressing the Inspector quickly, "You need to bring Rachel in to question her.  _I_  need to question her."

"She's dead." the Inspector calmly declared. The young woman and Watson gave quizzical looks at the new information.

"Excellent. How, when and why?" the eccentric asked excitedly, "Is there a connection? There has to be."

"Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she was never alive." Lestrade explained further. "Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

"Oh, that's.." Sherlock trailed off for a moment, thinking. "..That's not right. How..Why would she do that? Why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?" Philip queried blankly, "Yep—sociopath, I'm seeing it now."

Holmes glanced at him, stating firmly. "She didn't think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort,  _it would have hurt._ "

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves," Watson noted, "That he  _makes_  them take it. Well, maybe he..I don't know, talks to them. Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

"Yeah, but that was ages ago." dismissed the eccentric, "Why would she still be upset?" The others were quiet, a bit disbelieving he said such a thing. He looked at their faces, realizing his insensitive remark and becoming a tad embarrassed.

"Not good?" he asked his acquaintances.

"Bit not good, yeah." the writer told with a nod.

"If you were dying, if you'd been murdered," Sherlock confronted John, "In your very last few seconds, what would you say?"

"' _Please, God, let me live._ '" John answered.

"Use your imagination!" the other man stressed.

The doctor looked at him head-on with a firm expression. "I don't have to."

Sherlock explained more calmly that time, "Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever. Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers—she  _was_  clever. She's trying to tell us something." He began pacing the room once more.

"Isn't the doorbell working?" Mrs. Hudson now stood in the doorway. "Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

"I didn't order a taxi. Go away." he shooed.

She looked around the flat. "Oh, dear. They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson." the veteran informed the old woman.

"But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers—"

Brown eyes widen with realization and Vallas spoke then, trying to get his attention. "Sherlock?"

"Shut up, everybody! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe." Holmes yelled suddenly, startling everyone to a silence. "I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

Said person gave him a confused expression. "What? My face is?"

"Everyone quiet and still." Lestrade then demanded, "Anderson, turn your back."

"Oh, for God's sake!"

"Your back, now, please!" Anderson unfortunately complied.

"Come on, think. Quick!" the genius muttered to himself.

"What about your taxi?" his landlady questioned.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted at her, frightening the poor woman that she scurried off.

"Sherlock!" The young woman came in front of him suddenly and reached up, grabbing his face to make him look at her and only her. The man thought with astonishment that her hands were enjoyably soft and cool. They cupped his face just right that he had to admit he didn't want them to be remove which was greatly unlike him since he never really cared for intimate physical contact. His clear blues glanced down at the shorter person then, really seeing her for the first time. She was looking up at him with those expressive eyes. It was her—the real Marisol Vallas, the one that was no longer afraid of what people thought about her or her actions. Even now, she didn't pay attention to the people in the room looking at them with surprise because of their current position. Only they knew the truth and that was all that mattered.

" _Jennifer was trying to expose her killer._ " she quietly informed him, letting him go once it was said. "You said yourself she was clever. That would be a way to do it."

"Oh.." he pondered on what she told, quickly figuring it all out. A grin formed on his face. "Ah! She was clever. Clever, yes!"

Sherlock addressed the others, excluding the writer. "She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see? Do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She  _planted_  it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Lestrade asked curiously.

The genius peered at him perplexedly. "What do you mean, how?"

"Rachel. 'Rachel' is the key!" Vallas stated excitedly, enjoying greatly that she understood at last what was going on.

"Yes!" Holmes pointed at her, thrilled. The rest just gave puzzled expressions. "Don't you see? Rachel! Oh.." He chuckled lightly. "Look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name."

"Then what is it?" Watson inquired of him, annoyed by him dragging the answer out..

"Watson, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address." He sighed, leaning forward in his seat to read it from the case beside him while the other man took a seat in front of his laptop. The doctor read slowly aloud for him then.

" _She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone._ " the eccentric uttered as he typed in the user name. " _So it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled. So there was a website for her account. The user name is her e-mail address, and all together now, the password is—_ "

"Rachel." John said, understanding now. He, Lestrade, and Marisol gathered around Sherlock then to see the screen.

"So we can read her e-mails. So what?" Anderson noted boringly.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street." Sherlock insulted blandly before explaining, "We can do much more than that.  _It's a smartphone, it's got GPS. Which means if you lose it, you can locate it online._  She's leading us to the man who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it." pointed out the Inspector.

The doctor simply reassured him, "We know he didn't."

"Come on, come on. Quickly!" the genius muttered with impatience as the locator slowly loaded.

"Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver—" Mrs. Hudson stressed again, returning to the doorway.

He stood and walked towards her. "Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" He headed to the kitchen with the head officer. John took his place at the computer, waiting. The old woman stayed where she was, nervously unsure.

"Get vehicles, get a helicopter. This phone battery won't last forever." advised Holmes to Lestrade.

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name."

"Sherlock.." called John, reading the map on the computer with shock. But he wasn't heard as the other man rambled on.

"Narrows it down from just anyone in London. It's the first proper lead we've had."

"Sherlock.." his name was called again, being heard that time. Said person quickly came to his side.

"Where is it? Quickly, where?" he asked before peering at the locator.

"Here. It's..in 221 Baker Street."

"How can it be here? How?" Sherlock wondered, momentarily at a loss.

The Inspector noted, "Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere."

"And what? I didn't notice it? Me?  _I_  didn't notice..?" As they rambled on, Marisol went over to Mrs. Hudson who was still standing at the door. But paused halfway when seeing someone coming up the stairs behind the old woman, staring at the stranger with suspicion.

"Anyway, we texted him, and he called back." Watson stated.

"Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim." Lestrade informed his crew, not believing what John said. Sherlock grew quiet, thinking.

— _Who do we trust, even if we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?_

" _Well, the murderer must use a cab because it's perfect and no ones suspects anything malicious. People share cabs with strangers all the time and never think twice about it."_

Meanwhile, the young woman watched the stranger stop at the top of the stairs; their face covered in shadows. They then reached into their jacket pocket and removed..a  _pink_  rubber case iPhone. Her dark eyes widen with fear and surprise. Her assumption earlier had been close but not close enough. A text message alert sounded behind her and she turned, discovering it came from Sherlock's phone. He pulled out his, reading the text from Jennifer Wilson's number:

_Come with me_

He knew who it was now. Sherlock looked to Marisol and then the doorway. When the young woman looked back, the murderer was leaving.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" the veteran asked him.

"What..? Yeah, yeah..I'm fine." he reassured him softly.

"So, how can the phone be here?"

"Don't know."

John stood, getting his cell. "I'll try it again."

"Good idea." The genius walked away then, heading towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Fresh air, just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long." he told blankly while brushing passed Vallas who looked at him knowingly.

"Are you sure you're all right?" John asked again, looking at him peculiarly.

"I'm fine." he was told as the other man hurried down the stairs. Watson shrugged and continued with what he was doing..Though his goddaughter had other ideas.

"John, I'll be right back." she told him before rushing after the eccentric. When she arrived in the foyer, Holmes was heading for the door.

"Hey!"

He faced her with an annoyed expression. "Marisol, not now. I need to—"

"Yeah, I know, though I think it's reckless and stupid." she interrupted briskly, going to stand by him. "I'm not going to stop or beg to join you. But this man has killed four people, so.." Digging around in her satchel, the young woman removed a black  _Beretta M9_ —her father's old Army gun. "Here, take this just in case." He stared at it with a raised brow. "For protection, okay?"

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock questioned, studying her.

"Because.." Her voice trailed off, glancing away with a faint blush. "..You're a good man. Eccentric, but good. London would be lost without that mind of yours."

A smirk slowly crawled on his lips. "Was that a compliment, Ms. Vallas?"

The young woman sniffed once, tucking some hair. "I suppose it was."

"Heh. Thank you, but no." he declined, gently pushing the weapon away. "I can handle this myself. Appreciate the offer though."

"Fine." Marisol shrugged and concealed the gun again. She then stuck out her hand. The genius understood what she was doing. She was finally accepting a friendship with him. He took hers in his and gave a firm shake. "I trust you, Sherlock." With that, the writer walked back upstairs. He looked down at his hand for a moment before clenching it and suddenly filled with pure resolute.

* * *

**[Outside 221B Baker Street; 10:52pm]**

Standing in front of a taxi at the curb was an average, not very pleasing to the eye, older man when Sherlock stepped out into the night air again.

"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes." he said calmly.

"I didn't order a taxi."

"Doesn't mean you don't need one."

"You're the cabbie." noted the genius, "The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you. Not your passenger."

"See? No one ever thinks about the cabbie." the murderer stated, "It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer."

"Is this a confession?" Sherlock wondered, glancing up at the windows to his apartment briefly. He spied Marisol subtly watching the exchange.

"Oh, yeah." the man replied, "I'll tell you what else—if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet, and they can take me down, I promise."

"Why?"

"Cos you're not going to do that?"

An inquisitive brow lifted. "Am I not?"

"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. Holmes." he declared, "I spoke to 'em..and they killed themselves. If you get the coppers now, I'll promise you one thing..I will never tell you what I said." He walked away, going to return behind the wheel. John had hit the killer's ways right on the head. It was nice that the godparent and daughter had their moments of clarity, Sherlock enjoyably admitted to himself. He managed to pick suitable companions at last.

"No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result." Holmes pointed out to him.

"And you won't understand how those people died." rebuked to his statement, "What kind of result do you care about?" The genius thought for a moment before stepping towards the taxi.

"If I wanted to understand.." he said through the open window to the cabbie. "..What would I do?"

"Let me take you for a ride."

"So you can kill me too?"

"I don't want to kill you, Mr. Holmes." the older man rectified ominously, "I'm going to talk to you..and then you're going to kill yourself." Sherlock knew he was being baited like a cat with string for the truth. He always referred himself as one and like the saying, 'Curiosity killed the cat', he just might end up an example of the phrase. With one more look towards the window, Vallas nodded with a reassuring smile.

" _I trust you, Sherlock."_  repeated in his head. The genius never had someone purely trust him and he wasn't going to break that belief. So, he stepped into the car and drove off with the murderous cabbie with complete calm and a solid plan. John came over by the window then, still trying to call Jennifer's phone. He saw too that Sherlock had left.

"He just got in a cab.." He looked to Lestrade. "It's Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab."

"I told you, he does that." Donovan reminded before speaking to her superior. "He bloody left again. We're wasting our time!"

"I'm..calling the phone, it's ringing out." The doctor joined the officers while his goddaughter remained silent. The young woman's phone suddenly beeped. On the screen was a single reassuring message:

_Got a plan_

_SH_

" _Sherlock, I really hope you're right."_  the writer thought with anxiousness, biting her bottom lip as the whole situation didn't settle on her stomach well at all.

**_"Trust lies at the core of love; there can be no true love without trust."_ ~M.K. Soni**

**-TBC-**


	7. A Steady Hand

**[In a Taxi Heading Somewhere Unbeknown; 10:55pm]**

The ride to the location only the cabbie knew was silent expect for the shrill ringing of Jennifer Wilson's phone. Sherlock discreetly sent a text to Marisol.

_Got a plan_

_SH_

A several seconds later, a reply came:

_Wish you accepted my gun now? ;)_

His lips twitched, holding back a smirk.

* * *

**[Sherlock's Flat; 10:55pm]**

"And if it's ringing, it's not here." Lestrade noted.

John went to the laptop. "I'll try the search again."

"Does it matter? Does any of it?" ranted Sally to Lestrade, "He's just a lunatic and he'll always let you down. And you're wasting your time. All our time."

"He is not a lunatic. Sherlock's the only one really trying to end this." Vallas snapped, becoming sick and tired of hearing her complaining. But her outburst was for another reason also..one she hoped would work to her advantage.

"You don't even really know him, so don't bother defending the freak." the other woman told blandly. Marisol stomped over to her then; her dark eyes narrowed with anger.

"Either do you but I know enough to understand that he's adamant when it comes to a case. He wouldn't leave it unfinished. So unless you've got any other bright ideas, I suggest you shut it before you stick your foot even further in your mouth." A condescending sneer formed on her pink lips. "Or something else for that matter, which I'm sure Anderson would love to volunteer for also." Sally's eyes flared and she rushed towards the snarky younger woman who just stood there with her hands on her hips in a sassy pose.

"That's it! I've had it—"

"Enough! The both of you!" Lestrade got in between them to stop a possible fistfight. He looked at Sally. "Donovan, go cool off." Then Vallas, pointing a warning finger at her. "And you, another outburst like that and you'll be in cuffs down in my police car. Got it?" The women nodded, backing off with mumbling remarks but not without one last vicious glare at each other. The Inspector tiredly rubbed his temples before announcing with a wry tone.

"Okay, everybody..done here."

* * *

**[Taxi: close to location; 10:59pm]**

"..How did you find me?"

"Oh, I recognized you. Soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes!" the cabbie answered, pausing for a moment. "I was warned about you." Sherlock gave a curious expression to that, peeking his interest. "I've been on your website too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it."

"Who warned you about me?" he questioned smoothly.

"Just somebody out there who'd noticed."

"Who?" The genius leaned forward a bit, spying a torn picture taped to the dashboard. "Who would notice me?"

The man smiled. "You're too modest, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm really not." he was corrected quickly.

"Got yourself a fan."

Holmes leaned back, casually saying, "Tell me more."

"That's all you're going to know." the killer stated, menacingly adding. "..In  _this_  lifetime."

* * *

**[Sherlock's Flat; 10:59pm]**

The Inspector looked to the genius' acquaintances as he put on his coat. The other officers were all gone from the apartment and outside now. "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?"

John shrugged and glanced briefly at his goddaughter with a teasing glint in his eyes. "You know him better than I do." She blushed with a frown, holding back from elbowing him.

"I've known him for five years and no, I don't." Lestrade replied, not noting the double meaning.

"So why do you put up with him?" questioned Marisol curiously.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why." He headed for the door, peering back at them. "And, like you said, because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one." He then left, leaving the two alone. The young woman wasted no time and rushed to Sherlock's laptop.

"Finally! He's gone!"

"What are you doing?" John asked her, stepping over. "The police are taking care of this now, we don't need to continue helping."

"That may be true," she said securely, not taking her eyes off the screen. "But I'm not stopping." He sighed and grabbed his cane from where he left it on the table.

"Well, I'm going home. This has been enough excitement for me in one night." Walking away then, a beeping came from the computer—the locator had found the phone again.

A bit of relief washed over the writer. "There you are, you sociopath.." She snapped the laptop shut and took it with her, speeding out of the room. "Forget going home, John! Sherlock needs our help!"

"W-What?!" he blinked before going after her.

* * *

**[Taxi: Upon Arrived Destination; 11:04pm]**

The cabbie stopped outside two old building that seemed to be used a school of some sort before stepping out and opening the backseat door.

"Where are we?" asked Sherlock firmly.

"You know every street in London." the older man remarked, knowing Sherlock very well. "You know exactly where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?"

"It's open. Cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie—you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

"And you just walk your victims in? How?" A gun was pointed at him then and he sighed with disappointment. "Oh..Dull."

"Don't worry. It gets better." the killer reassured.

Holmes glared at him. "You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint."

"I don't. It's much better than that." he said, placing the weapon away. "Don't need this with you. Cos you'll follow me." He turned to stroll inside one of the buildings. The genius stayed where he was for a second before with gritted teeth, hurried after the murder, hating how well he was being read and his unhinged curiosity. Upon following, he was lead to a computer study hall.

"Well, what do you think?" the cabbie wondered as he peered around. "It's up to you. You're the one who's going to die here."

"No, I'm not." Sherlock said with certainty.

"That's what they all say." the other man stated while he sat down at one of the tables in the room. "Shall we talk?" The genius did the same, saying once seated.

"Bit risky, wasn't it? Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs. Hudson and Marisol Vallas will remember you."

"You call that a risk? Nah..This..is a risk." A vial with the suicide pill was placed in the center of the table between the men. The eccentric eyed it inquisitively. "Oh, I like this bit. Cos you don't get it yet, do ya? But you're about to. I just have to do this.." A second one was put alongside its' identical. "Weren't expecting that, were ya?" He said nothing, making the man grin. "Oh, you're gonna love this."

"Love what?" he deadpanned.

"Sherlock Holmes..look at you! Here in the flesh." commented the cabbie cockily, "That website of yours, your fan told me about it."

" _My fan?_ "

"You are brilliant. You are a proper genius.  _The Science Of Deduction_. Now, that..is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting here, why can't people think? Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?"

"Oh, I see.." drawled Holmes sardonically, "So you're a proper genius too."

"Don't look it, do I?" the older man noted, "Funny little man driving a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you  _ever_  know."

"Okay, two bottles. Explain."

"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle." he was informed, "You take the pill from the good bottle, you live. You take the pill from the bad bottle..you die."

"Both bottles are of course identical."

"In every way."

"And you know which is which."

"Of course _I_ know."

"But I don't."

"Wouldn't be a game if you knew—you're the one who chooses." The cabbie stated.

"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on." Sherlock pondered with indifference, "What's in it for me?"

"I haven't told you the best bit yet." the killer announced smoothly, "What bottle  _you_  choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then together..we take our medicine." Sherlock smirked, amused now. "I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't. Didn't expect that, did you, Mr. Holmes?"

"This what you did to the rest of them, you gave them a choice." he said aloud, processing this new information.

The other man nodded, disturbingly relishing the tense moment. "And now I'm giving  _you_ one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game"

Clear blues narrowed. "It's not a game, it's chance."

"I've played four times. I'm alive." the murderer smugly declared, "It's not chance, Mr. Holmes—it's chess. It's a game of chess with one move..and one survivor. And this.. _this_..is the move." He then pushed one of the bottles towards him. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one.."

* * *

**[Cab ride to Roland-Kerr Further Education College; 11:09pm]**

"No, Detective Inspector Lestrade—I need to speak to him." John stressed to the other person on the line. "It's important. It's an emergency."

"Left here, please." Vallas pointed as she instructed the driver where to go. The small computer sat in her lap with the mephone locator page still open. The impending seconds were ticking and they hoped to make it there in time before it was too later for their new friend.

* * *

**[Study Hall at Roland-Kerr Further Education College; 11:14pm]**

"You ready yet, Mr. Holmes? Ready to play?"

"Play what?" he questioned in a flat tone. "It's a 50/50 chance."

"You're not playing the numbers—you're playing  _me_." told harshly the killer. He tilted forward some. "Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff?"

"It's still just chance."

"Four people, in a row? It's not chance."

"Luck." stated the eccentric heatedly.

"It's genius!" he was corrected, "I know how people think." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know how people think _I_  think. I can see it all like a map inside my head. Everyone's so stupid, even you. Or maybe God just loves me." Holmes leaned on the table then with his hands wrapped business-like in front of him.

"Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie." he insulted coolly.

"So, he's still here?" Marisol and John now stood in front of the two buildings, peering at both.

"Yep. That's the taxi right there."

"Too bad the locator won't tell us exactly which one they're in." noted the doctor with a sigh. "It's never easy in these situation."

The young woman glanced at him, smirking. "Good thing there's  _two_  of us."

"So.." Sherlock paused. "You risked your life four times just to kill strangers—why?"

"Time to play." replied the older man instead.

"Oh, I  _am_  playing. This is my turn." he informed before assessing him, "There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own—there's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother's been cut out. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old, but frame's new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them.  _Estranged father_." The cabbie just sat there listening, glancing off the side somewhere.

"She took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts. Ah, but there's more." He pointed at the other man. "Your clothes. Recently laundered, but everything you're wearing is at least..three years old? Keeping up appearances, but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about?" Clears blues stared before an understanding filled them:

_—Dying_

"Ah..three years ago. Is that when they told you?"

"Told me what?" the murder at last spoke.

"That you're a dead man walking." Holmes said impassively.

"So are you." the cabbie told; he was becoming agitated and defensive.

The genius finished, uttering. "You don't have long, though. Am I right?"

"..Aneurism. Right in 'ere." He pointed to the top and right side of his head. The eccentric smirked triumphantly. "Any breath could be my last."

"And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people."

"I've outlived four people." corrected the killer, "That's the most fun you can have with an aneurism."

"No..No, there's something else." Holmes noted, "You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow, this is about your children."

The other man sighed, licking his dry lips nervously. "Oh..you _are_  good, in't ya?"

"But how?"

"When I die, they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs."

"Or serial killing."

"You'd be surprised."

" _Surprise me_." the genius challenged him.

"I have a sponsor." he revealed in a whisper. This information was indeed a plot twist that the other had believed would be true.

Sherlock raised a brow. "You have a what?"

"For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill..the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think."

"Who's sponsor a serial killer?" Sherlock whispered in disbelief.

"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?" the murderer countered. Said person's brows furrowed slightly. "You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's other out there just like you, except you're just a man. And they're so much more than that.

"What do you mean..more than a man? An organization..what?"

"There's a name that no one says. And I'm not going to say it either. Now, enough chatter. Time to choose." The eccentric peered down at the bottles then.

* * *

"Sherlock!" John ran from door to door, trying all to see if any of them would open while shouting out his name. The same was being done by his goddaughter.

His phone rang. " _..Find him?!_ "

"No, you?"

" _Nope. I'm heading to the second floor now._ "

"Okay, me too. Call me if you do."

" _Sure thing!_ "

* * *

"What if I don't choose either? I could just walk out of here."

The gun was put on him again. "You can take a 50/50 chance, or I can shoot you in the head. Funnily enough, no one's ever gone for that option."

"I'll have the gun, please." Sherlock requested, straight-faced.

"Are you sure?"

"Definitely." he smiled, "The gun."

"You don't want to phone a friend?" jested the killer.

"The gun." Holmes emphasized with that easy smile of his. The trigger was pulled and a small flame came out. "I know a real gun when I see one."

"None of the others did." the older man stated smoothly, putting the lighter away.

"Clearly." the eccentric said mockingly, "Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case." He stood and proceeded to leave.

"Just before you go, did you figure it out?" was asked of him suddenly. He stopped just before exiting through the door. "Which one's the good bottle?"

"Course. Child's play."

"Well, which one, then?" the cabbie questioned, slowly reeling him back in. "Which one would you have picked? Just so I know whether I could have beaten you. Come on! Play the game." Sherlock strolled over once more to the table. The bottle in front of the killer was picked. Said person took the other, removing and observing the poisoned pill.

"Oh..Interesting. So what do you think? Shall we?" The genius stayed silent, rolling the vial thoughtfully in his hand. "Really..what do you think? Can you beat me?" The older man got up to stand across the other, taunting him still with his words. "Are you clever enough..to bet your life? I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you. So clever." The curiosity..the need to know if he was right..was killing him. Holmes emptied the bottle then, giving in to his demented game. He raised the pill to the light to better see the contents.

The murderer prattled on. "But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it? Still the addict. But this..this is what you're really addicted to. You'll do anything..anything at all, to stop being bored." His words were like the puppeteer pulling the strings of his puppet, making it unwilling do what he wished. "You're not bored now, are ya? Isn't it good?" The poison moved gradually to Sherlock's lips; the cabbie mocking his movements, until a gunshot rang out and struck the killer, not instantly but close enough to the heart to kill slowly. The eccentric dropped the pill, returning to his senses. Spinning around on his heel, he discovered the shot had came through the window behind him. Upon a closer look, across to the other building, a window opposite of that one was opened but the shooter was nowhere to be visibly seen in the room. A wheezing gasp made him returned to the now-dying cabbie.

Picking up his dropped pill, he eagerly asked the man, "Was I right? I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?!" No answer. He tossed the pill angrily at him.

"Okay..tell me this. Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me, my fan. I want a name."

"No.." the killer rasped.

"You're dying, but there's till time to hurt you." Holmes told with cruelty. "Give me..a name." The injured older man stubbornly shook his head, earning a foot pressing down roughly on his wound. "A name! Now! The name!"

" _Moriarty!_ " shouted the murderer with his dying breath. The genius removed his foot and repeated the name in his head several times for a moment before mouthing it out that would play a major part later in the story.

* * *

**[Outside Ronald-Kerr; 11:32pm]**

Holmes sat in the back of an ambulance with a shock blanket once again placed around his shoulder for the fifth time. Finished dealing from some things inside the building, Lestrade joined him.

"Why have I got this blanket?' complained the genius when seeing him, "They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock." the other man told.

"I'm not in shock."

"Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs."

Sherlock sighed before questioning, "So, the shooter—no sign?"

"Cleared off before we got here." the Inspector stated, "But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but..we've got nothing to go on."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." the eccentric said knowledgeably.

The detective sighed, "Okay. Give me."

"The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon, that's a crack shot. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and..nerves of steel.." Sherlock began to drawl as he noticed John and Marisol standing not too far from where he was. The young woman gave a shy wave when he looked but it was her godfather that really caught his attention. The doctor stood in a militant stance; doing so being ingrained after several years of service. He knew then who the shooter was.

"Actually, do you know what? Ignore me." he told Lestrade.

"Sorry?" Lestrade said, thinking he heard wrong.

Holmes stood with the blanket still on. "Ignore all of that. It's just the, er..the shock talking." He began to leave and join his new friends.

"Where are you going?"

"I just need to..talk about the..the rent."

The Inspector followed, "I've still got questions."

"Oh, what now?! I'm in shock." He waved the blanket for emphasis. "Look, I've got a blanket."

"Sherlock—"

The genius prattled next, "And I just caught you a serial killer..more or less."

"Okay..we'll pull you in tomorrow." Lestrade instructed, "Off you go." He complied, at last joining the writer and veteran.

"..You all right?" Vallas asked with concern right away. Sherlock noticed she was shivering a bit and without her coat.

"Yes, I'm, uh, fine." he assured before taking off the shock blanket and then handing it to her. She gave a questioning look. "It's not for shock obviously but the cold. I noticed you forgot your coat."

"Uh, right." A sweet smile was given as the blanket was wrapped over her shoulders like a shawl. "Thank you." He nodded stiffly.

"Erm..Sergeant Donovan's..just been explaining everything. Two pills.." Watson said, shaking his head once. "Dreadful business, isn't it? Dreadful."

Sherlock stared at him. "..Good shot."

"Yes. Yes, must have been. Through that window."

"Well,  _you'd_  know." the eccentric pressed adamantly, "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case." John cleared his throat, peering around. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course I'm all right." the doctor answered calmly.

"Well, you have just killed a man."

"Yes, I.." He paused, sharing a short glance with Marisol before looking back to Sherlock. "..That's true, isn't it? But he wasn't a very nice man."

"No. No, he wasn't, really, was he?" agreed Holmes.

"Frankly, a bloody awful cabbie." The three chuckled at that.

"That's true, he was a bad cabbie." They began to leave the scene together. "You should have seen the route he took us to get here." They burst into more laughter.

"Stop! We can't giggle, it's a crime scene." scolded the young woman, though she was still laughing. "Stop it, hehe."

"He's the one who shot him." noted Sherlock just as the trio passed by Sally.

"Keep your voice down!" John reprimanded him before saying to the sergeant. "Sorry, it's just, erm..nerves, I think."

"Sorry." Sherlock told her half-heartedly. The woman narrowed her eyes at them before continuing on. When they were a good distance away from not being heard by any officers, the doctor queried.

"You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?"

"Course I wasn't. Biding my time." the genius informed smoothly, "Knew you two would turn up."

"No, you didn't." denied the other man, "That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot." Marisol deadpanned, making him smile. She became serious then. "Look, John and I had only just met you and we saw clearly that you were clever and always will..so that should be enough. You don't need the whole world to." She reached over to give his arm a gentle touch, uttering. "Something to remember if you're ever at your lowest, Sherlock." He nodded, somewhat moved by what she told him.

Composing himself again, he asked them. "Dinner?"

"Starving." John replied.

"Oh, definitely." agreed the writer.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese. Stays open till two." Sherlock stated as they walked off again. "You can tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle." But John wasn't listening as he saw the man would questioned him earlier step out of a car.

"Sherlock..that's him," he told quickly, "That's the man I was talking to you about."

The eccentric looked, narrowing his clear blues. "I know exactly who that is."

"So..another case cracked." his arch-enemy said upon joining the three with his assistant, 'Anthea.' "How very public-spirited. Though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Holmes questioned harshly.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern.'"

"Always so aggressive." the man chuckled, "Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough..no." Sherlock told snarkily.

"We have more in common than you'd like to believe." the stranger stated, "This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer..And you know how it always upset Mummy." The godchild and parent's brows furrowed simultaneously with confusion.

" _I_  upset her?" scoffed the genius, "Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

"No. No, wait.." John interrupted, "Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

"Mother. Our mother." his new friend explained as last, "This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft corrected snidely.

"He's your brother?"

"Course he's my brother."

"So he's not—"

"Not what?" The siblings looked at Watson questioningly.

"I don't know..criminal mastermind?" guessed Watson.

"..Close enough." Sherlock drawled.

His brother laughed, "For goodness' sake, I occupy a minor position in the British Government."

"He  _is_  the British Government when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Sherlock then addressed him lastly. "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home—you know what it does for the traffic." He walked away afterwards.

"..Wow, haha." Marisol uttered with a grin before following him. John did the same but paused, glancing back at Mycroft.

"So, when you say you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned?"

"Yes, of course."

"It actually is a childish feud?"

"He's always been so resentful." informed the other man, "You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Yeah.." the doctor drawled, looking at the retreating Sherlock before denying, "No..God, no. I'd better, erm.." He noticed 'Anthea' then. "Hello again."

"Hello." she greeted politely.

"Yes, we met earlier on this evening."

"..Oh!" the woman said, seeming to have forgotten him.

His good daughter had returned and said blandly as she tugged on his coat sleeve. "Come on, John."

"Okay. Good night." he told the other Holmes before leaving.

"Good night, Dr. Watson." Mycroft said, watching the group go.

"Sir, shall we go?" asked his assistant.

"Interesting, that soldier fellow and his goddaughter." he commented, "They could be the making of my brother..or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade 3 active."

"Sorry, sir—whose status?"

"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson."

"So, dim sum." John stated the dish he was going to get.

"Mmm!" Sherlock hummed, "I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No, you can't." smirked Vallas.

"Almost can." he smirked back before stating suddenly, "You did get shot, though."

"Sorry?" the two questioned, off-guard.

"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound."

"Oh. Yeah, shoulder." the doctor replied when realizing he was talking about himself.

"Shoulder! I thought so."

"No, you didn't." Watson contradicted.

"The left one." noted Holmes.

"Lucky guess."

"I never guess."

"Yes, you do." smiled Marisol before noticing his own. "What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty." was her single reply.

John asked him curiously, "What's 'Moriarty'?"

"I've absolutely no idea." he informed them with glee.

**-TBC-**


	8. Phantom Killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [edited on 2/26/15]

**[National Antiques Museum; 5:20pm on March 21st]**

A group of visitors, all ethnicity and ages, stood around a table where a beautiful Chinese woman sat, giving a tea ceremony demonstration.

"The great artisans say the more the teapot is used the more beautiful it becomes. The pot is seasoned by repeatedly pouring tea over the surface. The deposit left on the clay created this beautiful patina over time. Some pots, the clay has been burnished by tea made over four hundred years ago."

That was the last time tea demonstration for the day. The museum was starting to close, only ten minutes for visitors to leave. The woman stayed where she was, taking her time of cleaning and putting away the delicate clay teapots. She was so engrossed in their care, that she failed to noticed someone was behind her—an awkward but average looking young man who worked along with her at the museum.

"Four hundred years old, they're letting you use it to make yourself a brew." he noted, jesting innocently.

"Some things aren't supposed to sit behind glass, they're made to be touched. To be handled." she told him, glancing back briefly. A soft stricken sigh escaped her, picking one pot up. "These pots need attention. The clay is cracking."

"Well, I can't see how a tiny splash of tea is going to help." the man chuckled.

"Sometimes you have to look hard at something to see its value." replied the woman before picking another one that was more shinier and showing him. "See? This one shines a little brighter."

"I don't suppose.." he began, finally getting to the point of talking to her. "Um, I mean..I don't suppose that you want to have drink? Not tea, obviously. Um, in a pub, with me, tonight. Um..?"

"You wouldn't like me all that much." she kindly warned.

"Can I maybe decide that for myself?"

"..I can't. I'm sorry. Please stop asking." she finished, closing the box holding the teapots and other instruments.

The Chinese woman is later alone in the museum's artifacts storage. It is quiet until the sound of a door lock clicking is heard.

"Is that security?" she called out, receiving no answer. Cautiously, she stepped out of the storage locker and see no one visibly there. "Hello?" A draft stirred the ends of a cloth that was covered a statue..the sheet had not been there when she had arrived. With slow steps, she walked towards it and gently pulled the sheet away when standing before it. Horror lit her face at whatever was there..

* * *

**[Marketplace; 12:43pm on March 22nd]**

A month had passed since moving in with Sherlock Holmes. John was still getting accustom to his lifestyle and behavior. The eccentric never really left the apartment unless investigating, so the shopping was mostly left up to him. But it was easier said than done. At the self-checkout, Watson was taking his time scanning items even with a long line of people behind him. Though the machine was being unreliable and slowly grating on the doctor's nerves with its' annoying computerized voice. He angrily gave up at some point and stormed away, leaving the unpaid food.

* * *

**[221B; 12:50pm]**

At Baker Street, Sherlock was having a battle of his own but a far more deadly kind with an Arabian assassin. But unlike his flatmate, he didn't give up and instead triumphed. Though when Watson returned to flat, evidences of a fight were not seen or thought as he found the other man casually sitting in his armchair with a book.

"You took your time." Sherlock said upon his return.

"Yeah, I didn't get the shopping." John told, looking around the apartment. It seemed a bit different somehow to him.

Holmes looked away from his book. "What? Why not?"

"Because I had a row in the shop with a chip and PIN machine." the doctor informed with annoyance.

"You..you had a row with a machine?" his flatmate repeated, sounding slightly baffled by his statement.

Watson sighed frustratingly, closing his eyes for a second. "Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?"

"Take my card." The genius nodded towards the kitchen then, smirking with amusement. John walked that way but paused, turning back to him to angrily reprimand.

"You could always go yourself, you know, you've been sitting there all morning. You've not even moved since I left." Sherlock briefly thought back to earlier and decided then against proving the other man wrong.

"Oh, dear, trouble in paradise already?" The two men turned. Marisol had strolled in.

"Please. Don't tease about that too." her godfather said blankly, making her laugh.

For the past two weeks, she had visited almost everyday. She was finishing up being an intern to Professor Montgomery and currently was carefully getting her affairs settled upon soon graduating with a Bachelor's degree for writing in the coming spring. So she had some time on her hands. Since John had left their old apartment that the two had lived in since her father's passing, Vallas had moved out and got a more decent and reasonably priced loft in the city close to the college and not too far from Baker Street. But when not at  _Goldsmiths_  or being a waitress at a local pub, the young woman enjoyed spending her free time in the company of Watson and Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson. She minded to the cooking and cleaning for the men—mostly Sherlock, for he was an untidy sort. Even with her around, she didn't worry or tend after her godfather too much anymore, seeing that he was back to his old self.

Sherlock pretended to be busy reading, but he stealthy watched her. That day, she had came in wearing the beige trench coat he was accustom to seeing on her now. Upon removing said coat, a navy floral-patterned v-neck dress was what she wore. The dress was knee-length, exposing her legs that were covered in dark tights that gave the illusion of lace and pink cutout oxfords on her feet. His brows furrowed and he quickly looked away from her body. Lately, the man had developed an odd habit of observing her style of clothing. He instead moved his attention on what she was placing down on the coffee table. It was the normal; the tan leather satchel but there was a new addition—a small open-faced motorcycle helmet with a  _Hello Kitty_  design.

"That's a new helmet." he noted aloud, "You must have purchase a motorcycle recently."

"A motorcycle? What do you need one of those for?" John questioned with surprise.

"For both of your information, it's a scooter and it's to drive me places that's what it's for." she replied in a dead tone before pointing an angry finger at Holmes. "And you ruined the surprise."

The man shrugged, returning to his book. "I simply was observing. You were planning on telling John anyway." She bit back replying childishly with, 'That's not the point!'

"What wrong with taking a cab or the Tube?" asked the doctor.

"Nothing, but a guy I know well from Cambridge was selling it and showed me a picture. I fell in love with it at first sight." A happy smile formed, lighting up her pretty face. "It's a  _Vespa_ , pastel yellow, been in restoration for a year and it looks brand new. I saw it yesterday and bought it off him today." She picked up the helmet. "He gave me this in addition."

"You spent some of your inheritance on a scooter for how much?"

"About £600."

"600?! Marisol, that is far too much!"

"What? Come on. I'll save alot more money with this than using a cab all the time." the young woman reasoned with crossed arms. "There's still a bunch of cash in my trust fund that Grams left. My only real luxuries have been my laptop, my phone, my apartment, and now the Vespa—all things needed in  _my_  life." Her grandmother had died with some money to her name. So in her will, all of it had been given to Marisol on her twenty-first birthday—a total of £100,000. With that sum and the money left by her father, the writer was well off.

Watson raised his hands in defeat. "Okay, okay! Just be wise about your spending is all I'm saying."

"I am." she stated with an exultant smirk. "So, why were you scolding Sherlock when I came in?"

"I went to the shop, had a row with the chip and PIN machine—"

A delicate brow raised. "Again?"

"This has happened more than once?" queried Holmes, entertained.

"Not the point!" the veteran noted with chafe before finishing, "And I was telling Sherlock that he could have gone and got the shopping since he's been sitting there all morning." He went to the kitchen then, fishing out his flatmate's card from his wallet now.

"Oh, what happened about the case you were offered—" Marisol pondered curiously, glancing to the eccentric for an answer. "The Jaria diamond, wasn't it?"

"Not interested." he stated, indifferent. The book was closed and he briefly glanced down, seeing the sword from the assassin peeking out from under the chair. The heel of his shoe pushed in back out of sight secretively when John turned his back..though, the young woman noticed but said nothing at all; the only evidence of her knowing was the tiny tilt the corner of her lips made. "I sent them a message."

Placing down the wallet, Watson noticed a long scratch on the cluttered wooden table in the kitchen that hadn't been there. He rubbed, thinking it was just a smudge but with no success. A heavy sigh escaped him as he realized not all had been right while he left as his instinct had presumed. The man shook his head and tutted under his breath, giving a quick look at the genius.

"So, what are you doing here? Isn't your lunch break almost over?" John asked his goddaughter then.

"It's Monday, morning class only. But I'm really here—" Vallas stepped closer to Holmes suddenly and took his book. "To get this! Sherlock, I was having a fit looking for it! I was suppose to return it back today along with the others."

His curly brown haired head tilted. "Really? It was today?" The doctor smirked as he watched. Oh, he knew it was. The man just enjoyed irritating the writer for some odd reason. Personally, John thought it was insane, him doing so, since Marisol could be frightening like a war-rage Greek Goddess on a hellbent path when absolutely furious. But it was also funny too and reminded him at times of a comedy act from the genius' calm, heedless demeanor and the young woman's heated, snarky one.

"Yes! Geez! If you want me to get you books from the uni's library," she huffed, "Make sure they're  _all_  together when going to be returned."

"I'm gonna go try getting the shopping again..hopefully with more success." John announced; a laugh notable in his voice from their banter.

"I'm leaving too now." his goddaughter sighed, retrieving her satchel and helmet.

"Wait, before you do, I've complied another list of books for you to get." Holmes informed then, nodding to the desk beside him. "It's on the table."

"Oh, goodie." Marisol said dripping with sarcasm while getting said list. She skimmed it with a groan. "You just love torturing me, don't you?"

"Punishment for slapping me." grinned the eccentric. Two weeks had passed and he still wouldn't let it go no matter how much she apologized.

"I'd slap you again," she glared, "If it weren't for what I feared you'd do to me next. I'll get your stupid books but next time, go yourself, you hermit. And you're watching Daisy for me since I have to take a cab now to carry all this."

" _Daisy?_ " the two men repeated with non-hidden mirth.

"My _Vespa_ , and yes, I named it." the young woman said snippy before striding out. "Don't judge me."

* * *

An hour later, a tired Watson returned again with several heavy grocery bags this time. He would have been back sooner if he had cash on him to take a bus or cab. Instead, the doctor walked, deciding possibly at first that he needed the exercise. Sherlock, now sat at the desk; John's laptop open in front of him. An email from someone he knew was what he was contemplatively reading.

"Don't worry about me, I can manage." John said sardonic, wobbling into the kitchen to put the food down. He looked at Holmes. "..Is that my computer?"

"Of course."

"What?!"

"Mine was in the bedroom." Sherlock stated, typing away.

"What? And you couldn't be bothered to get up?" exclaimed his flatmate, incredulous. "It's password protected."

"In a manner of speaking. Took me less than a minute to guess yours," Clear blues looked at him briefly. "Not exactly Fort Knox."

"Right. Thank you." The doctor took back his laptop and went to sit down. The genius said nothing; just steeple his hands in thought. Meanwhile, John looked over the bills that were past due on the small lamp table by the red chair.

"Need to get a job." he remarked.

"Oh, dull." drawled the eccentric in comment.

"Listen, um.." began the veteran, "..if you'd be able to lend me some..Sherlock, are you listening?" Before he could reply, a clambering came from the stairway along with a strings of profanity. John stood and hurried to the door, seeing Marisol struggling with a large stack of books in her arms.

"Let me get those." he said, scurrying to her side to take them.

"Yes, please do." she said wearily, walking pass him when he did and collapsing unladylike on the couch. Her eyes closed for a moment. When they opened again, a bottle of water was offered to her..by Sherlock.

She took the drink, surprised. "Oh..thanks."

"..Thank you for getting my books." he replied softly, if not shyly. Dark brown eyes blinked, amazed even more. He headed for the door and stated, "I need to go to the bank." The veteran and young woman stared after him, off-guard for a second. Marisol perked up and stood with her water bottle still in hand with a knowledgeable grin.

" _He's got another interesting case."_

* * *

**[Shad Sanderson; 1:48pm]**

"Yes, when you said we were going to the bank.." John trailed as the three strolled into a busy lobby..but an investment and stock trading one. A high-class place from the tall glass structure and its' obvious modernism and business dressed people walking about. They took an escalator to get to the front desk; Sherlock all the while observing every chaotic movement and objects around.

"This feels more like a hotel than a bank if you ask me." muttered the young woman, looking around. When arriving at the desk, all Sherlock had to do was tell his name and they were shortly escorted to the office of Sebastian, the current chairman in the International Trading Department. He was a posh man but overly confident in attitude that made him haughty.

"Sherlock Holmes." he said upon meeting in his office.

"Sebastian." the genius greeted formally, shaking hands. Even the man's handshake was obnoxious.

"Hiya, buddy. How long—eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

"Yes. These are my friends, John Watson and Marisol Vallas."

Sebastian looked, surprised by what he addressed them. "Friends?"

"Colleague." Watson corrected, shaking hands with him.

"Right." the trader noted; that seeming more understandable. Either noticed the change in Holmes' demeanor except Marisol. She saw that what her godfather said upset him; not thinking he would correct being called his friend but he would say nothing about it being the man he was. She briefly reminded herself to later scold John for that remark.

So when it was her turn to shake hands with Sebastian, she stated kindly, "I'm really the only  _true_  friend here." He may grated her nerves at times but she wasn't ashamed to consider him a friend. She didn't have many so when she called you one, you were that to her for life unless otherwise.

"And a pretty friend he's got too." Sebastian chuckled. She gave a smile filled with mock-flattery. He went to his desk. "Grab a pew. Do you need anything, coffee, water?" They all denied any refreshments before seating. Sherlock looked to Vallas briefly and she gave a wink which made him smirk, cheering him up. The doctor and genius sat in the chairs across Sebastian while the writer stood behind them.

"So you're doing well. You've been abroad a lot." noted Holmes.

"Well, so?" the trader shrugged indifferently.

"Flying all the way around the world twice in a month."

Sebastian scoffed with a laugh. "Right. You're doing that thing. We were at uni together, and this guy here had a trick he used to do. He could look at you and tell you your whole life story."

"It's not a trick." Sherlock uttered.

"Yes, we've seen him do it." Watson informed, glancing at his flatmate.

"Put the wind up everybody, we hated it." Sebastian told. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night." Marisol steeled herself from snapping at the man for calling her friend a freak. She now immediately hated him, putting him top of the list along with Sally Donovan.

"I simply observed." he stated calmly, all but peeved.

"Go on, enlighten me." his old uni colleague requested, finding his deducing to be a fun little game. "Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world, you're quite right. How could you tell?" The eccentric went to speak but he continued on, "Are you going to tell me there's a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?"

"No, I—"

"Is it the mud on my shoes?"

The genius stared for a moment then stated, "I was just chatting with your secretary outside. She told me." Vallas raised a questioning brow while Watson had a curious expression.

Sebastian laughed before getting to the reason for their visit. "I'm glad you could make it over, we've had a break-in." He lead them out of his office then to show where the break-in occurred. "Sir William's office—the bank's former chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night."

"What did they steal?" asked the doctor.

"Nothing." he was told, "Just left a little message." Using an access card, Sebastian showed them into the room where a wall and a painting of the former chairman were used for two strange symbols spray-painted yellow. The trio stared at the graffiti message. The case was indeed interesting so far. The group returned to the trader's office to watch the security video of the phenomenon.

"Sixty seconds apart." he informed them of how much video feed was missing. Before that time, the office was normal and after the graffiti was there as shown. "So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around and left within a minute."

"How many ways into that office?" Sherlock questioned.

"Well, that's where this gets really interesting." Back down at the front desk in the lobby, a floor plan of the trading room. "Every door that opens in this bank, it gets locked right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet."

"That door didn't open last night?" Holmes figured what his old uni colleague really wanted to know.

"There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you—five figures." A check was removed from Sebastian's inner coat pocket. "This is an advance. Tell me how he got in. There's a bigger one on its way."

"I don't need an incentive, Sebastian." the genius remarked smoothly, walking away to get to work. Marisol smirked and followed after him, leaving John and said man alone together.

"He's, er.." John cleared his throat. "..he's kidding you, obviously. Shall I look after that for him? Thanks." He took it and read the large sum written out. It made him take a deep breath and sigh of relief—the past due bills would be taken care of most definitely.

* * *

**[Sir William Shad's Office; 2:10pm]**

The shuttering sound of a photo being taken was all that were heard in the room—Sherlock using his  _Blackberry's_  camera to store the symbols for future research. Marisol leaned on the door frame, staring intently at the message while biting her lower lip thoughtfully. The genius had finished taking photos and was slowly turning about the room, pausing when spying the young woman's posture.

"..You've seen these before, haven't you?"

"Yeah, they seem familiar.." she replied, walking further inside for close examination. "But I can't remember where. It'll come to me eventually though. Always does at the last minute."

"That's not much help." he deadpanned, continuing his observing of the room.

"I never say it would be." the young woman responded in an equally dead tone. Clear blue eyes rolled and then discovered an openable window that was camouflaged and obscured by the open shades. Sherlock looked from it to the doorway and back again before striding to the window. Drawing the blinds, he opened the glass panel, stepping outside onto the ledge. There was a pointed domed structure seen directly across from the office and down below, the roofs of two building along with Shad Anderson's towering one.

The writer came over, peeking her head out for a second. "No way. What you're thinking is like something from a spy movie, it's insane that what it is."

"But not impossible." the genius contradicted, returning inside. Now she watched him office as he moved around the cubicles and ducked down before popping back up. Vallas held back laughter as she thought he resembled an animal popping up out of its' hole and looking for any nearby danger. The workers of Shad Anderson were staring at him also, but with curious and perplexed expressions. The genius certainly was an odd sight to behold. The purpose of his silly movement was to see where in the area some of the message could be clearly seen by someone. He hit his mark when seeing the vandalized painting by someone's office. Observing the nameplate, it read Edward Van Coon, Hong Kong Desk Head. He took the name and returned to the office, saying to the young woman.

"Time to go find John."

* * *

The trio regrouped at the front desk. "..Two trips around the world this month." John noted suddenly, "You didn't ask his secretary, you said that just to irritate him." Sherlock smiled. "How did you know?"

"Did you see his watch?"

"His watch?"

"The time was right, but the date was wrong." Holmes explained, "Said two days ago. Crossed the date line twice and he didn't alter it."

"Within a month?" Marisol raised a brow. "How did you get that?"

"New Breitling. Only came out this February."

"Okay. So do you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?" Watson asked as they rode the escalator down to the downstairs lobby.

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks." the genius told, "That graffiti was a message. Someone at the bank, working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient and.."

"They'll lead us to the person who sent it?" finished the other man, understanding.

"Obvious."

"Well, there's 300 people up there, who was it meant for?"

"Pillars?"

"What?" John and Marisol said together.

"Pillars and the screens." Holmes clarified for them, "Very few places you could see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course, the message was left at 11:34 last night. That tells us a lot."

"Does it?" the doctor noted as they left the bank.

"Traders come to work at all hours. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for somebody who came in at midnight." Sherlock removed the nameplate from his pocket, showing his acquaintances. "Not many Van Coons in the phone book."

**-TBC-**


	9. Influence

**[Outside Van Coon's Apartment Building; 2:41pm]**

The trio stood on the front steps by a buzzer panel with names of the apartment's tenants. Sherlock pressed the buzzer by the engraved name card, Van Coon. There was no response. He rung again with the same result.

"So what do we do now?" Vallas questioned, pulling her coat tighter because of the chill from the rain. "Sit here and wait for him to come back?"

"Just moved in."

"What?"

He pointed to the name above Van Coon; the name card was paper and 'Wintle' was written in blue ink.. "Floor above, new label."

"Could have just replaced it." John pointed out but Holmes pressed the buzzer anyway.

"No one ever does that." he told him just before a female's voice called a questioning hello. "Hi, um, I live in the flat just below you. I don't think we've met."

" _No, well, er, I've just moved in._ "

The genius glanced the others briefly with a victorious look. "Actually, I've just locked my keys in my flat."

" _Do you want me to buzz you in?_ "

"Yeah. And can we use your balcony?" he asked casually.

" _What?_ "

With some smooth talking, the eccentric managed to convince the woman to allow him to use her balcony. Because of that, he was able to drop below onto Van Coon's patio. And just like at Sir William's office, the patio door was left open. He walked around inside. The apartment was pristine with monochrome interior design; almost seeming to be barely used. The only evidence in the living room of someone having to lived there was a stack of paperback books on a table. Moving on to observe the kitchen, he opened the fridge; full of champagne but no food. Next, the tiny bathroom where it was also nice and impeccable with normal items—like hand towels and a dispenser of liquid soap. The apartment's doorbell rang suddenly.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay?" Watson's voice came from behind the door. Though said person didn't answer, continuing his tour until arriving at what had to be the bedroom. "..Yeah, any time you like letting us in!"

The room was locked—a bad sign already. With his shoulder, he rammed into the doors and they came free. Inside, on the bed, Van Coon laid dead with a bullet hole in his right temple and a stainless steel  _SIG Sauer P226_  at his side..

* * *

**[Van Coon's apartment; 2:57pm]**

"Do you think he'd lost a lot of money?" pondered John, "Suicide is pretty common among City boys." The police had been called right when the body was found. Forensics were the first on the scene, right away bagging and identifying potential evidence.

"We don't know that it was suicide." stated Sherlock, rummaging through the dead victim's dirty suitcase laundry on the floor but an odd, large impression was left visible among the clothing..

"Come on. The door was locked from the inside, you had to climb down the balcony." Watson noted firmly.

"And you don't think someone else could have done the same?" informed Vallas lowly so none of the Forensics team in the room overheard. "Break in, kill Van Coon and then make it look like an apparent suicide before bolting? Like Sherlock said, crazy, but apparently not impossible."

"Been away three days judging by the laundry." Sherlock stood, facing them again. "Look at the case, there was something tightly packed inside it."

"Thanks. I'll take your word for it." the doctor declined, meaning what he said.

"Problem?" the genius queried briskly.

"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear." his flatmate explained his lack of enthusiasm.

"All right, girls." Marisol told with an impatient roll of her dark eyes.

Holmes stepped away from the case, going back to the bed to examine the body. "Those symbols at the bank, the graffiti, why were they put there?

"Some sort of cryptography, I guess." the young woman assumed.

"Obviously." he agreed while checking various places on Van Coon. "Why were they painted? Want to communicate, why not use e-mail?"

"Well, maybe he wasn't answering." stated John after a moment of thought.

"Oh, good, you follow." Sherlock said blandly.

"Nope." he was told.

"What kind of a message would everyone try to avoid?"

"A bad one, duh." she deadpanned, responding before her godfather could. The eccentric paused in his searching for a moment to smirk at her, amused. She gave one in return. He looked to John briefly, continuing where he stopped a second ago.

"What about this morning? Those letters you were looking at?"

"Bills?" At that moment, Sherlock carefully removed a small bit of black paper that was folded into origami from Van Coon's parted mouth. Marisol gagged, covering her own to stop from barfing. John, undeterred, leaned in for a closer observation.

"Yes. He was being threatened." uttered Holmes, placing the origami in an evidence baggie.

"Not by the Gas Board." confirmed Watson softly. Just then, a man either of the group had seen before joined them.

"..see if we can get prints off this glass." he ordered one of the Forensics before noticing the trio. John and Marisol had been both expecting to see Lestrade, not this person that personally didn't seem all that experience in the 'current situation's' department.

"Ah, sergeant, we haven't met." the eccentric addressed him, walking over to offer his hand. The newcomer didn't accept the gesture, placing both hands on his hips and speaking with a cold response.

"Yeah, I know who you are," the man told, not impressed by the world's only consulting detective. "And I would prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence." He peered at others, subtly meaning them as well. Sherlock said nothing to his rudeness and simply handed over the bag with the soggy origami.

"I phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?" he asked, silently hoping he didn't have to work with this stranger alone. He knew right away the sergeant wouldn't let him be completely 'helpful' or tolerate his method of working in the case as much as Greg did.

"He's busy. I'm in charge." he was informed, "And it's not Sergeant, it's Detective Inspector Dimmock." Said person walked away. Sherlock glanced back at his companion who were just as surprised as he was.

"..Well, he's a pocket full of sunshine, ain't he?" the writer noted blankly. They followed after the Inspector then; Sherlock leading the way with Vallas and Watson close behind. The young woman watched him. He was annoyed. She could tell from tiny furrowing of his brows and the hurried removal of the rubber gloves. Plus, the emotion seemed to radiated off his body but only she seemed to notice. Like him, she had been noticing far too many details about the apathetic detective. Marisol just summed it as just her observant nature and nothing more.

Dimmock gave the bag to a Forensics member. "We're obviously looking at a suicide."

"It does seem the only explanation of all the facts." noted John, speaking his firm assumption of the crime scene.

"Wong, it's one possible explanation of some of the facts." Holmes corrected harshly, snapping off his rubber gloves. Clear blues looked from Dimmock to John. "You've got a solution that you like, but you are choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?" questioned the Inspector.

"Wound's on the right side of his head."

"And?"

"Van Coon was left-handed." Sherlock stated, gesturing out mockingly how impossible it was for the dead left-handed man to shot himself there. "Requires quite a bit of contortion."

The younger man stared at him in disbelief. "Left-handed?"

"I'm sorry, but can you please construct more than a one word sentence?" blurted Vallas who pinched the bridge of her nose. "Or just let Sherlock speak without your interjections because it's very annoying."

The men all looked at her. "What? I can't be the only one who was thinking that. He's like a bit of an owl.." An indifferent expression was placed on the man of discussion."..except less cute." Dimmock flushed, taken back by her rude statement. The eccentric grinned, momentarily forgetting the crime. He was far more interested in what would come out of that unpredictable girl.

"Marisol!" her godfather scolded lightly, receiving a small shrug as a reply. He stared. John still couldn't believe how publicly bold her goddaughter had become. But the older man had a notion as to whom had struck such behavior to occur regularly..a certain tall, unsociable consulting detective, to be more specific..

"Anyway, I'm amazed you didn't notice." the genius continued; the grin still present on his face. "All you have to do is look around this flat. Coffee table on the left-hand side," He pointed at the mentioned object then. "Coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets, habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left of the phone. Picked up with his right, took messages with his left." He paused, glancing towards the Inspector. "D'you want me to go on?"

"No, I think you've covered it." Watson replied for them both.

But it was useless. "I might as well, I'm almost at the bottom of the list." His companion just sighed. "There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left. It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. Conclusion, someone broke in here and murdered him—only explanation of  _all_  of the facts."

"But the gun—"

"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened." finished Holmes, stepping away to retrieve his belongings.

Dimmock was truly baffled by this news. "..What?" Marisol mentally groaned with a shake of her head; making her curls bounce a bit.

"Today at the bank, sort of a warning." explained the veteran simply.

The eccentric then added, "He fired a shot when his attacker came in."

"And the bullet?"

"Went through the open window."

"Oh, come on!" the Detective Inspector denied. "What are the chances of that?!"

"Wait until you get the ballistic report." he was instructed, "The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun, I guarantee it."

"But if his door was locked from the inside," Dimmock pondered, "How did the killer get in?"

"Good, you're finally asking the  _right_  questions." And with that Holmes left, leaving him to his own investigating.

* * *

**[An Unnamed Posh Restaurant in Central London; 3:30pm]**

The atmosphere was calm and refine in the restaurant as the dim lighting and design set the mood. There weren't many people inside since the lunch hour was winding down. But from the guests, there was a various of them—from business to families—though all had one thing in common which was their financial status. Just stepping into the place even before striding up to the banker's table of clients gave a 'you do not belong here' impression. The farfetched companions found the banker eating lunch while telling godawful jokes that his associates were unbelievably yucking up. With no hello or 'can we talk alone for a moment', Sherlock got right to the point of his former colleague wanted solved.

"It was a threat, that's what the graffiti meant." The others at the table paused and looked towards the new arrivals with confusion.

"..I'm kind of in a meeting." Sebastian informed; really not wanting to discuss the embarrassing matter then. "Can you make an appointment with my secretary?"

"I don't think this can wait. Sorry, Sebastian." the eccentric told firmly. "One of your traders, someone who worked in your office, was killed."

Wilkes raised a brow. "What?"

"Van Coon." Watson clarified, "The police are at his flat."

"Killed?!"

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion." Holmes apologized unsympathetic to the other baffled men before addressing his old uni classmate. "Still want to make an appointment? Would maybe nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?" The banker adjusted his collar nervously as he quickly contemplated. He made the right decision, going to the men's room for a more private conversation on the matter. Sherlock and John joined him while Marisol was left outside to watch the door.

"..Harrow, Oxford..very bright guy." the dead man's boss stated while washing his hands. 'Worked in Asia for a while, so—"

"You gave him the Hong Kong accounts?" figured the doctor. The genius said not a word, listening with a pensive expression for hidden clues.

"Lost five million in a single morning, made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had."

"Who'd want to kill him?"

"We all make enemies." Sebastian replied with indifference as if that tidbit was commonplace.

John reasoned, "You don't all end up with a bullet through your temple." A message alert interrupted their conversation—it belonging to Wilkes.

"Not usually. Excuse me." The cell phone was removed and checked. The flatmates looked on with patient curiosity. "It's my chairman. Police have been on to him." His gaze directed towards Holmes. "Apparently they're telling him it was a suicide."

"Well, they're got it wrong, Sebastian." Sherlock noted snippy, stressing his next words. "He was murdered."

"Well, I'm afraid they don't see it like that,"

"So?"

"—And neither does my boss." said Sebastian with resolve before leaving. "I hired you to do a job. Don't get sidetracked."

"..I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards." Watson declared sarcastically. His joke didn't receive a reply, chuckle, or a smirk from his companion. Just the view of his back as his flatmate left the restroom also. Neither Sebastian nor Dimmock believed this case was a homicide. And because of his least favorite traits, the genius needed to prove himself right to his simple-minded doubters always.

Upon stepping out, he found the writer seated cross-legged on the floor against the wall next to the door. Her arms were folded over her chest, appearing to be pouting; not enjoying that she had to be left out because of public restroom rules. Head tilting upwards at his arrival, Sherlock couldn't look away. She had been sulking and her expression reminded him that of a disciplined child on a timeout. A smirk formed on his lips and his hand began to reach down to brush back her wispy curved bangs affectionately. Marisol watched curiously as it neared. But he managed to return to his senses, recoiling as if she were a hot stove top. The reaction oddly disappointed her.

A blush tinted her cheeks at that thought. _"..But why..?"_ An awkward moment passed before John joined the two then, much to both their relief.

"S-So, what happen in there? You lot weren't crossing swords, were ya'?" she joked crudely with a nervous laugh, trying to ease the uncomfortable atmosphere. Her godfather lightly chuckled but Sherlock's clear blues stared down at her, unamused. Vallas cringed.  _"Smooth.."_

"Uh, no," Watson smiled, "Basically, Sebastian thinks we're spouting rubbish on this being a murder."

She sighed softly. "Of course," She faced the genius then; a small, teasing smile on her pink lips. "But our stubborn git's gonna prove him wrong no doubt." He blinked. A tightness formed in the center of his chest, startling him.

"..Come on, we're leaving." Holmes stated briskly, tired of being at the restaurant and a sudden need for fresh air..

* * *

**[Outside 221B; 4:00pm]**

When the cab came to the curb, Sherlock was the first to hop out, tossing money to the driver and striding inside Mrs. Hudson's home with those long legs of his, leaving the family members alone on the sidewalk. Marisol went to her Vespa at the spot where it was left and sat sideways on the seat. John came to stand in front of her.

"My feet hurt.." she complained, stretching out her legs as her toes wiggled in the pink oxfords. "Remind me to change into comfortable shoes before running around with Sherlock.."

"..I don't know about a 'next time', Mari."

The young woman tilted her head. "Eh?"

"What I mean is, go focus on your studies, job, and other stuff in your life." he clarified, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just for awhile, okay?"

"Oh, I see.." the writer frowned, adding in a dead tone. "I'm being a bother."

"Hey, that's not—"

"No, it's okay. I understand." She pulled out the keys to start the scooter and was going to leave when suddenly remembering that her helmet was inside. Cursing under her breath, she sent a quick text to Sherlock.

_Hey, do me a favor please and bring my helmet down._

_Thanks._

John grasped her arm gently. "Marisol, listen. I'm telling you this because I'm a bit concern Sherlock is becoming a bad influence on you."

"What? Couldn't you have just said that in the first place?" the young woman looked at him incredulous. "And why are you saying this all of a sudden?"

"You were really being mouthy today." the older man explained, "You weren't like this a lot until meeting him."

"..The only thing Sherlock ever influenced me about was to be myself. I owe him that, but this is me. I'm just not afraid anymore." A warning finger was pointed at him. " _Do not_  tell him I said that either!"

The doctor wiped a hand across his tired face. "All right, I'll give him that. But, and I can't stress this enough, you need to go out and live like a person in their twenties. Go make friends, have crazy but responsible fun."

"God, you're such a broken record, John." Marisol groaned childishly. "I don't want to do that and I have enough friends! You, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson."

"Friends your age, sweetheart."

Her gaze glanced to the side; arms crossed her chest stubbornly with a pout. "..They're all so immature.."

"What 'bout that Adam kid you work with?" her godfather suggested encouragingly, "You've mentioned more than once how perf—Mmph!" Small, slender hands covered his mouth. Vallas stared at him like he had just uttered the Dark Lord's name.

"I can't!" she squeaked with an embarrassed blush. "N-Not him!" John smiled behind her hands. How could she be a grown woman and still be able to do reactions like that of a child? At that moment, the window to the men's loft opened and Holmes stuck half his body out with her helmet in hand.

"Here!" he simply said before letting it go.

"W-Wait a second!" Vallas hurried over, almost knocking down John, in time to luckily catch it. Her dark eyes glared daggers up at the uncaring genius. "You could have broken it! Lazy arse!" A text chime was heard—

_There's a case! I have better things to do than be an errand boy for you. You've been warned, Vallas._

_SH_

An angry red flush crossed her cheeks. "But I asked nicely!" Sherlock just shrugged, returning inside.

"Still want to hang around that?" Watson asked blankly. From above, hidden by the curtain, the eccentric watched the young woman he treated meanly. She turned and replied to something the veteran said in a heated manner, pointing at the window. Whatever she said had made his flatmate burst out laughing. Even some strangers walking by seemed to chuckle or smile upon hearing. Marisol stomped her foot, probably telling the man to stop and that 'it wasn't funny' or 'I'm serious'. Sherlock grinned widely. She had the best reactions when teased by him, he'd never stop mentioning that. She was a word he never used as it was a tender sentiment. And sentiments, in his mind, were chemical defects. But his lips couldn't help unconsciously uttering,

"..How cute.."

**-TBC-**


	10. A Scooter for Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [edited on 2/26/15]

**[National Antiques Museum; 4:43pm on March 23rd**   **]**

The young man that last talked to his pretty co-worker, Andy Galbraith, was checking over a new piece when his Director appeared at his side.

"I need you to get over to  _Crispians_." she told, "Two Ming vases up for auction—Chenghua. Will you appraise them?" He was shown a picture of said objects. These weren't in his area, so he thought he might muck up the job.

"Soo Lin should go. She's the expert." he suggested, knowing well her skills.

"Soo Lin has resigned her job. I need you." the Director said, walking away.

* * *

**[Outside Soo Lin's apartment in Chinatown; 5:27pm]**

Compelled with an unsettling feeling, Andy decided to pay Soo Lin a visit to make sure she was all right. He rang the buzzer, hoping she would answer. She didn't come to the door. Assuming she was just out at the moment, the young man left a quick note and placed it through the mail slot before unfortunately leaving.

* * *

**[Location Unknown; 9:12pm]**

A portly, bald man ran through the busy streets, appearing flustered and scared. So much so, that he didn't care about almost being struck by a car. He was much too concern about what was behind him..as if something or someone was chasing him. The man managed to make it to his apartment building, believing he had out ran his pursuers for the moment. Scurrying up the stairs two at a time, he arrived at his door and fumbled with his keys before dashing inside. But upon entering the bedroom area, he discovered it to be in a state of disarray more so than it had been when he left that morning. Someone had been inside and could still be there..

* * *

 **[At a Local Clinic; 11:05am on March 24** **th** **]**

The General Practitioner, Dr. Sarah Sawyer quietly looked over John's extensive resume. Watson had heard from the help of Mike that there might have been an opening at a clinic not too far from  _Barts_. With the bills looming over, he decided that finding a steady job was necessary since relying only on Sherlock's casework to bring in any income was out of the question. The eccentric was too picky and when he finally took on one, he never wanted the money offered most times. Marisol had kindly offered to paid but her godfather refuse immensely, saying she needed every penny she had even if well off.

The woman, who he found very pretty, glanced over at said man after a few moments. "Just locum work."

"No, that's fine." he assured firmly, eying that her desk plaque read 'Sarah Sawyer'.

"You're, um.." she said, peering once more at the sheet in her hand. "Well, you're a bit over-qualified."

The veteran smiled, "Er, I could always do with the money."

"Well, we've got two away on holiday this week and one's just left to have a baby. It might be a bit mundane for you."

"No, mundane is good, sometimes." the man stated, thinking of his current adventures with Holmes. "Mundane works."

"It says you were a soldier." Sarah noted with curiosity.

"And a doctor." John added with another smile.

"Anything else you can do?"

"..I learned the clarinet at school."

"Oh.." Sawyer laughed. He liked her laugh. "..well, I'll look forward to it."

* * *

**[Sherlock and John's apartment; 12:11pm]**

When John returned to the apartment after his interview, Sherlock was once again in his 'Mind Palace' and still trying to identify the yellow symbols with so far, no success. He snapped out of it right as his flatmate walked in,

"I said, could you pass me a pen?"

John gave a confused expression. "What? When?"

"About an hour ago." he was told.

"Didn't notice I'd gone out, then?" Watson sighed, tossing over one. Sherlock caught it perfectly without even looking. The other man then walked to the fireplace where printed out pictures of the cryptic message were taped above. "I went to see about a job at that surgery."

"How was it?" Holmes asked.

"Great." John replied absently with a happy tone. "She's great."

The eccentric raised a brow. "Who?"

"The job." he corrected, realizing what he said.

" _She?_ "

"It."

"Yeah, have a look." Sherlock nodded his head towards the open laptop— _John's laptop_. An online news article was there with the headline reading, ' _Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for police_ '.

"' _The intruder who can walk through walls._ '" quoted aloud the veteran slowly.

"It happened last night." summarized his flatmate, "Doors locked, windows bolted from the inside. Exactly the same as Van Coon."

"God! You think—?"

Holmes steepled his hands. "He's killed another one."

* * *

**[New Scotland Yard; 12:32pm]**

"Brian Lukis, freelance journalist, murdered in his flat." Dimmock crossed his arms with a blank look. Sherlock and Watson had came strolling in unannounced, spewing facts that he already damn well knew. But he known better than to cut off the consulting detective when he was on a tangent. Holmes was typing on his computer before showing the article on the victim, finishing. "Doors locked from the inside."

"You've got to admit, it's similar." John pointed, "Both men killed by someone who can walk through solid walls." The man in front of them stay quiet, dubious.

"Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another city suicide?" No response. The eccentric sighed greatly. "You have seen the ballistics report, I suppose?" Dimmock finally nodded. "And the shot that killed him. Was it fired from his own gun?"

"No."

"No. So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel." Sherlock leaned forward to seem menacing in his persuasion. "I've just handed you a murder inquiry. Five minutes in his flat."

* * *

**[Second Murder Scene: Brian Lukis' flat; 1:08pm]**

Well, once again, Sherlock managed to get his way. Though he would have liked to have a longer time, this was the best Dimmock would allow as long as he was there supervising like mother hen. As with every crime scene, the messy apartment was left untouched. That left just enough details for the detective to observe. Upon walking in, his gaze first noticed the open suitcase on the floor with an impression at the bottom and then the evident signature of the killer—the black origami flower. So far, two  _similar_  clues to obviously link the murders. But blue eyes scanned the room for one more which was also very important to the case. Holmes paused, peering at the window before stepping over to glance outside. A pleased smirk formed on his lips suddenly.

"Four floors up." he stated, "That's why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door, bolt it shut, think they're impregnable. They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in."

"..I don't understand." told Dimmock as the genius headed back into the hall.

"Dealing with a killer who can climb." he clarified, standing in front of a small skylight now.

"What are you doing?"

"Clings to the walls like an insect." The window was pushed open with a clunk. "That's how he got in."

"What?!" Sherlock suppressed a long sigh. Marisol was right. The Detective Inspector was like a clueless owl. He was expecting her to groan and mutter under her breath something along the line of ' _Here we go again!_ ' But the man remembered she wasn't there. In fact, now that he realized it, the young woman hadn't been to the flat since the Van Coon murder..Was she mad at him for almost destroying her helmet? Or was she at last tired of his cruel teasing..or of him? That last question oddly bothered him.

" _Now's not the time to ponder it."_  he scolded himself, mentally reminding to pester John for the reason to her absent though.

The eccentric finally explained, "He climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight."

The officer replied in disbelief, "You're not serious?! Like Spiderman?"

"He scaled six floors of a Docklands apartment building, jumped the balcony and killed Van Coon."

"Oh, Hold on—!"

"And of course, that's how he got into the bank—ran along the window ledge onto the terrace." Sherlock continued adamantly; not in the mood to deal with Dimmock's interruptions anymore. "I have to find out what connects these two men." Moving back, he noticed on the steps of the staircase a stack of books and picked one up. It was from a nearby library which had been checked out yesterday night. The location of the library was only a couple of blocks away from Lukis' apartment.

* * *

**[West Kensington Library; 1:18pm]**

"The date stamped on the book is the same day that he died." Watson and Holmes now stood together in the section where it belonged. It was a long shot that they would find what they were looking for there; words that the doctor had pointed in the cab. But they checked the books anyway, skimming through the pages for any hints. But it was John who found the link—the strange message in yellow paint sprayed on the back of the white bookcase..

* * *

**[221B: Sherlock and John's flat; 2:02pm]**

The flatmates stood in front of what the genius called ' _the spider web_ ', reviewing the new evidence and summarizing a bit of the tragic events.

"So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher at the bank." stated Holmes, "Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in. Hours later, he dies."

"..The killer finds Lukis at the library, he writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen." John added then, "Lukis goes home."

"Late that night, he dies too."

"Why did they die, Sherlock?"

"Only the cipher can tell us." he answered, brushing his fingertips along one photo. And he knew one lawbreaker that might be able to help identify that yellow graffiti.

* * *

**[Outside the National Antiques Museum; 2:30pm]**

The eccentric had to ask around to the whereabouts of his unnamed acquaintance which was at the museum. The two men had to hurry over because the person wouldn't be staying long. The area was commonly overcrowded that day with students, tourists, and locals. All of them gathered around by the fountain or in groups spread through the front of the museum like flocks of pesky pigeons. Once there, Holmes began explaining his thoughts on the message and their reason for meeting this stranger.

"The world's run on codes and ciphers, John. From the million-pound security system at the back to the PIN machine you took exception to. Cryptography inhabits our every waking moment."

"Yes, okay, but—"

"But it's all computer generated—electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods." he told, walking up the steps to the building. "This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it."

"So where are we headed?" John pondered, seeing that his flatmate wasn't walking towards the entrance.

Sherlock quieted for a moment before reluctantly uttering, "I need to ask some advice."

"What? Sorry?" the doctor said, believing he heard wrong. Clear blues glanced at him with a blank expression, seeing his incredulous smile.

"You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again." the other man deadpanned. He was lucky Vallas hadn't witness what he said. She wouldn't have let it go; grinning smugly and saying, ' _So, Mr. Holmes isn't as perfect as he portrays. Hell must have froze over from this shocking news!_ ' A grimace formed on his lips at that moment. There he went thinking of  _her_  again. Why was that plain girl popping into his mind lately? Now, don't get him wrong, it wasn't annoying..he just found it  _unusual_.

"You need advice?"

"On painting." he responded, pulled from his rambling thoughts. "Yes, I need to talk to an expert." At the back of the museum, the duo came upon a younger man currently spray painting graffiti art on a door.

"Part of a new exhibition." he informed once they stood behind him; not bothering with a hello or some other kind greeting.

"..Interesting." Sherlock told in a voice that clearly did not personally find it as such.

The tagger grinned. "I call it.. _Urban Bloodlust Frenzy_ , haha."

"Catchy." the veteran commented blankly. He also didn't see the appeal in the art or how that title fit what he made—a police officer which looked like a pig.

"I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes around that corner. Can we do this while I'm working?" Holmes handed his phone without a word. The younger man tossed one of his cans to John to hold before taking it, skimming through the photos.

"Know the author?"

"I recognized the paint." he answered with instead, "It's like  _Michigan_ —hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."

"And what about the symbols?" the genius pressed impatiently. "Do you recognized them?"

"I'm not even sure it's a proper language." joked the tagger.

With an annoyed expression, the other man said, "Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them."

"And this is all you've got to go on? It's hardly much now, is it?

"Are you going to help us or not?"

"..I'll ask around."

"Somebody must know something about it—"

"Oi!" came a shout behind them then, cutting the conversation short. It was the community officers Raz mentioned. Surprised, John turned around at the voice while the tagger and eccentric had the same idea and raced out of there to avoid an arrest.

The officers stopped in front of Watson, looking at him with a disapproval. "What the hell do you think you're doing? This gallery is a listed public building."

"No, no. Wait, wait. It's not me who painted that. I was just holding this for.." the doctor denied, turning to face the two behind only to finally realized their disappearance. His shoulder slumped in disappointment. There was no getting out of that now.

" _Seriously, Sherlock!"_  he thought bitterly. One of the officers glanced down towards the bag full of spray paint.

"Bit of an enthusiast, are we?" John couldn't reply, accepting his framed fate.

* * *

**[Inside the National Antiques Museum: Central London; 2:30pm]**

Andrew was once again pestering his Director about the strangeness of Soo Lin's departure. "She was right in the middle of an important piece of restoration. Why would she suddenly resign?"

The woman beside him shrugged. "Family problems. She said so in her letter."

"But she doesn't have a family." he expressed, "She came to this country on her own."

"Andy!" his Director said in light resign.

"Look, those teapots, those ceramics. They've become her obsession." Andrew told, trying desperately now to get her to understand his persistent. "She's been working on restoring them for weeks. I can't believe that she would just..abandon them."

"Perhaps she was getting a bit of unwanted attention?" pointed the woman, knowing his unhidden liking for said person of discussion. She walked away as he was left speechless.

* * *

**[221B: the Loft; 3:49pm]**

John—pissed off beyond belief—returned home for the third time after his wrongful arrest some time later. The eccentric who left him to the mercy of the community officers was casually standing in front of the fireplace again. He had added scribbled notes of various symbols he knew to his 'spider's web' now. The veteran just couldn't believe what occurred. But then again, this was Sherlock he was talking about. The man was an inconsiderate asshole most times.

"You've been awhile." Watson paused, glancing his way before replying with strained calm effort.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is. Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they? Just formalities. Fingerprints, charge sheet, and I've got to be in magistrates' court on Tuesday."

"What?" Holmes responded, not listening before.

" _Me_ , Sherlock!" he snapped at him, "In court, on Tuesday! They're giving me an ASBO!"

"Good, fine."

"You want to tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up anytime."

"This symbol, I still can't place it." the genius stated suddenly, turning from his web. His bright-eyed gaze landed on John. Now, was the time to ask. "..Marisol said that it looked familiar to her the other day. It would have been simple to ask again if she was here. I wonder where she's scurrying about?"

"Well, she's busy living her own life." his flatmate said simply, shrugging out of his coat. "But I'll give her a call now and ask for you." The other man frowned. That was not what he wanted to hear. He came up to Watson then and placed his coat back on.

"Oi!" the doctor exclaimed in annoyance.

"No, I need you to go to the police station and ask about the journalist." he told, ignoring his protest and leading him back towards the door. "The personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements." Once grabbing his favorite coat and scarf, Sherlock hurried behind John.

"And where are you headed then?"

"To go and see Van Coon's PA. If you retrace their steps, somewhere they'll coincide." After that, the two went separate ways—Holmes headed for the Tube station nearby while Watson called for a cab. But as one pulled over, he thought he had spied a suspicious woman dressed in black taking pictures of him. Though when glancing that why once inside, she was gone..like an apparition.

* * *

**[The Golden Lion pub; 4:15pm]**

The lunch crowd was gradually leaving the bar, much to Marisol's relief. She needed a break from interacting with so many people. But she had to say, working the day shift was a lot better than night which had been done once and would never again as vowed. With a bottled water and a simple green apple, the writer took a seat at a corner table and occupied herself with an old issue of  _Hellblazer_. Though the words on the pages didn't register and the writer ended up pondering instead. Like what Watson and Holmes were up to. She hated missing out on the case but her ire towards Sherlock's rudeness won every time when she was about to cave. She had been sitting there for a several minutes before a voice appeared beside her.

"God, he's such an arse.." she muttered bitterly.

"Reading again, Marisol?" Dark eyes snapped up to see a young man around her age with well-favored features take the spot across her.

A faint blush painted her cheekbones and she mumbled a response, "Um, yeah."

"Haha, that's so like you." he told with a grin that was far too adorable for a grown man. But only Adam Ridgell could pull it off. She shrugged indifferently, hating that she couldn't talk to him naturally still after about a year. Though with Sherlock, it was easy in a day..Vallas blamed it on her having a crush on her co-worker. He was good looking in her opinion—short, tousled light brown hair, neatly kept beard, hazel eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, and normal height with a lean body. The list could go on.

Adam worked as a licensed bartender which he left his major in biotechnology for to learn. She had asked him once why and he answered with, 'It's always fun to try something at else once, right?' His personality was charming and laid back and people tended to like him right away. He also tried his best to make anyone around him smile. With Marisol, he always went out of his way to help her feel included even when she didn't want to. The young man looked out for her and if she ever had the chance, she'd do the same. A silence fell between them after that, though it surprisingly wasn't uncomfortable.

"Hey? I forgot to ask you how you're liking the Vespa so far?" Ridgell asked a minute later. At that question, a happy expression lit up the writer's face.

"I'm loving it. Daisy's a blessing—that what I named her by the way. I no longer have to rely on either the Tube or a cab fully." Vallas answered brightly, "It's so much fun to ride too! Nothing like a motorcycle but still, I really appreciate you offering her to me first." The young man stared wide-eyed at his co-worker. She blinked. "What?"

"Sorry, I'm still not used to you talking so lively." he smiled with subtle adoration, "You should do it more often. Your smile is very pretty, heh." The young woman gaped, forgetting how to response to his obvious compliment.

"Actually, she does..though I don't see anything special about it." The two turned their head towards the new arrival. Sherlock stood with a slight smirk as he looked down at them. He was more than pleased to ruin the affectionate atmosphere emitting from the younger people.

"What are you doing here?!" his friend questioned in surprise. Her brown eyes then narrowed. "Wait..did you force John to tell you where I might be?"

"No. I saw the name of this place on your name tag one day when you left your mess of a bag open." he replied coolly.

"It's rude to peek into a woman's bag, you git!" she reprimanded.

"You know well how I am. Plus, I didn't see anything.. _too unpleasant._ " Holmes grinned which meant he had..like the extra pair of panties she kept in there. "Be more careful next time though."

She covered her redden face with her hand, sighing. "God, you're a pain. Well, hurry up and tell me what you want?"

"I need your help."

"Wait..what?" The older man grimaced. She and John had to be blood related; there was no doubt about it.

"..There's been another death." he said, getting to the reason of his uninvited visit.

Marisol grew serious then. "Was the same motive there?" she asked.

"Yes and no. It looked like a killing this time but the murderer still liked to climb and used that odd symbol."

"Geez, will killers ever pay attention to their actions?" the young woman complained with a shake of her curly head. "They practically want someone to discover them."

"I'm sorry to interrupt but are you two discussing what I think you are?" Adam interjected suddenly; his hazel eyes wide in honest curiosity. The writer and genius paused, remembering he had been sitting there listening.

Clear blues glared. "This doesn't concern you."

"Sherlock, be nice!" Vallas slapped his arm in a scolding manner. He placed his glare on her instead. "Anyway, you don't really need my help. You just want me to be your conversation skull since John isn't with you."

Ridgell raised a brow, "Conservation skull?"

"Long story. Speaking of my godfather, where is he?"

"At the police station asking more about our latest victim." he answered blankly. "I doubt he wanted my company at the moment anyway since he was mad about his wrongful arrest earlier." He was a bit startled when the young woman suddenly confronted him, standing so fast he took an involuntary step backwards. Even Adam was shocked by her abrupt mood change. Her hands grabbed the lapels of his coat and roughly pulled him down to where they were nose to nose since she was shorter than him; now able to see the black pupil in her furious dark brown eyes.

" _What did you do?_ " the young woman hissed, automatically knowing he was at fault. The older man stared without expression. He could practically feel the anger radiating off her skin. It was his first time seeing her full of absolute ire though John had told him about her almost fighting Donovan two weeks ago.

"Go ask Watson." he drawled in challenge. A crooked smile laced with malice graced her pretty features then.

"Oh, I plan to and you better hope it's not bad."

"So are you coming along or not?" the eccentric deadpanned.

She let go of him and crossed her arms over her chest, giving the evil eye still. "I'd like too since this case has gotten me curious again, but if you have not noticed, I'm unfortunately at work."

"..I can cover for you." her co-worker butted in again, "I'll tell Derek you had a family emergency. Plus, Ellen will be here soon for her shift."

Her gaze fell on him in confusion. "You'd do that for me?"

"Sure, why wouldn't I?" he remarked with his charming grin.

"Wow..thanks, Adam." she smiled sweetly, blushing a tad as she reverted back to her docile side. Sherlock silently watched the interaction.

" _..They like each other.."_ It was obvious to him from the endearing smiles, the cute little redness on the young woman's face, and the obvious look in their eyes. But he doubted Vallas could truly tell the boy liked her back. And for some reason, it unsettled the detective.

"I'll be outside. Don't keep me waiting, plain girl." Holmes snatched his friend's uneaten apple from the table and irately turned on his heel then, leaving the two startled co-workers. The writer rolled her eyes at his retreating back while picking up her water and comic.

"Plain girl?" Adam smirked in amusement once the other man was gone.

"His rude nickname for me." Marisol shrugged, indifferent. "I call him a git, though he's anything but that."

"Well, I think you're anything but plain. Specially now."

A brow raised.  _"Was that a flirt?"_ she thought in astonishment. "Right..well, thanks again."

"No problem, but.." He grinned widely at her. "You owe me now. And I'll let it go if you go out for coffee with me. Say, this Friday?"

She replied in unabashed excitement, "O-Okay!" Marisol blushed from her obvious eagerness and quickly covered nonchalantly. "Uh, I mean—sure, why not? Seems fair."

He reached towards her just then and Vallas held her breath, not knowing what he would do. His hand had picked up a strand of hair that fallen out of place and carefully put it back while that boyish smile of his crept on his gorgeous face.

"It's a date then." The action left her a stammering mess and she hurriedly left afterwards, leaving the bartender to merrily watch as he leaned back in his chair.

* * *

**[Outside: The Golden Lion; 4:22pm]**

Marisol found her friend casually leaning against the wall by the pub's entrance. He had a bored expression on his face while eating her stolen apple. Upon seeing it caused her stomach to growl, reminding the young woman of her obvious hunger.

"You owe me dinner once we're done." she told, frowning. His gaze lazily fell on her then. Holmes hadn't paid too much attention in what she had been wearing inside. Now, he took in the cute cashmere slouch beanie that covered her loose curls. A buttoned polka dot v-neck blouse with a black camisole underneath; the sleeves had been rolled up to her elbows. Burgundy trousers hugged her slender legs and black leather strapped ankle boots covered her feet. A long silence had formed between the two while he cataloged her clothing into his memory bank.

Vallas waved a hand in front of his face. "Oi! Earth to Sherlock!"

"..Fine." he stated, pushing himself off the wall and disposing the half eaten fruit in a nearby trashcan.

"Fine?" she repeated with a raised brow. "You're actually gonna do it?"

The eccentric smirked. "Yes, I heard your stomach growl. It would be cruel of me not to abate that monster living in you." Marisol glared and walked away, muttering a curse in Greek under her breath. Holmes caught up quick in two long strides, stepping along with her side by side.

"So where are we headed?"

"To speak with Van Coon's PA. Retrace the man's steps before his death."

The two stopped beside her scooter. "All right." the young woman nodded, lifting the sit and pulling out two helmets. The spare was offered to the man. "Well, we're wasting daylight, so let's go, daddy-o!"

"..I'll take a cab, thank you." Sherlock deadpanned, uninterested.

"Oh, come on. This is quicker." Marisol reasoned, "I promise I'm a safe driver, if that's what you're worried about." He was silent for a moment. The young woman sighed loudly. "..Okay, fine! Take your stupid—!"

"Why you haven't been coming to the flat?"

She blinked, taken off-guard that she told him the truth. "Uh..John told me to. Said you were becoming a bad influence which is absolute rubbish." A glare was fixed on the other man then. "But it was the 'almost destroying my helmet' part that made me stay away."

"Hmph. As I figured." he smirked, beginning to step away; contented now that he had his answer. But Vallas was faster, grabbing his wrist.

""Wait..did you miss my company or something?" questioned the writer, glancing up at him with curiosity. "Is that why also you came to find me?"

"No. I was just wondering." the eccentric shrugged indifferently; an edge in his voice. Having caught it, a smug grin crawled onto Marisol's face.

"You did miss me! Just admit it!"

Blue eyes rolled in exasperation. "Can you let go of me now? We're wasting time." She complied with the grin still present, not pressing anymore. The young woman then preceded to place on her helmet and get on Daisy.

"I guess I should thank you, Sherlock, because I got a date Friday out of your surprise visit." The genius gazed with astonishment. 'Marisol has a date?..And it was probably with that annoying guy too,' he thought. Her news caused a bitter taste to form in his mouth..which was realized to be blood a second later. He had suddenly clenched his jaw that the inside of his cheek was accidentally bitten. And Holmes was aggravated, not believing the writer thought her co-worker was 'the right guy' to even considered a dating once more. Meanwhile Vallas, oblivious to her friend's mulling, adjusted her chin strap. Right then, an extra weight was suddenly added behind her.

"I don't have the patient to find a cab." was said before she could even ask.

"..Sure, sure." Marisol smirked, handing the spare over her shoulder.

**-TBC-**


	11. Showdown in Chinatown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the 100+Hits & Kudos! <3~Lovely

**[On 'Daisy': Heading to Shad Sanderson; 4:27pm]**

Holmes would have very much preferred a bit of distance at the moment. But given their current situation, it did not approve of that. Though, their closeness had provided two new facts during the ride. One—on the back of the writer's neck were three tiny moles that if you connected them would create a triangle. Sherlock had almost removed one of his hands to trace his finger along them upon discovery, stopping when realizing the action would startle her and very much likely their demise.

And two—their bodies naturally fit well together. She felt so fragile that a sudden need to protect her from harm filled his thoughts. His lifestyle was hectic and fraught with danger on almost a daily basis. So far, none had came to her but that wouldn't last for long if the young woman continue to assist him. He understood then John's constant nagging for her to do other things and stay away.

" _But she never will. So, I'll just keep an extra eye on her."_  he stated to himself, tightening his grip on her slightly.

As for Marisol, she was regretting offering Sherlock a ride. Their close proximity had her senses on overdrive for some strange reason. Her back was engulfed with heat from the eccentric's chest being pressed against her. His large hands were rested firmly on her hips, making the young woman constantly aware of his touch. But it was his strong aroma that struck her with a bit of dizziness—the smell of oak heavy in her nostrils and it was  _lovely_.

" _Had he always smelled like this?"_  she absently wondered with a smile, parking her scooter in front of the bank.  _"It's nice.."_

Her gaze widen, realizing what she noted. "Wait? What the hell?"

"What's wrong?" came the detective's voice in her ear suddenly. His warm breath caressed it, making her almost shiver. She squeaked and moved to stand on the sidewalk, creating a bit of distance between them.

"Uh, I-I just remembered I might not have enough for the meter." He stared at her; the young woman resisting the urge to fidget under his piercing gaze. After what felt like forever, Sherlock stood and rustled around in his coat pocket, breaking their eye contact. Marisol sighed quietly in relief. Some money was offered to her along with the borrowed helmet.

"That should be enough." Holmes deadpanned, ruffling his hair back into its' normal curly style. The action caused a blush to form on the writer's cheeks. Even she had to admit it was kinda sensual when he did that. "Hurry up and go pay." She nodded and did so, glad for the distraction to recollect herself and thoughts.

* * *

**[Returned: New Scotland Yard; 4:30pm]**

John stood across Dimmock once again. The Inspector was currently rummaging through one box of Lukis' belongings. The encounter was incredibly awkward.

"Your friend—" the other man began to comment.

"Listen, whatever you say," Watson interrupted him, "I'm behind you hundred percent."

"—he's an arrogant sod." he finished blankly. The doctor was silent for a moment, having expected some more colorful depiction of his flatmate.

"Well, that was mild. People say a lot worse than that." A small leather handbook was offered to him then.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it? The journalist's diary?" He took and opened it in the middle to find a  _Zhuang_  Airlines ticket stub for a trip to  _Dalian_. It immediately struck him as odd and an important clue.

* * *

**[Shad Shaderson: Van Coon's office; 4:30pm]**

She stood silently off to the side as Sherlock talked to Amanda, Van Coon's PA. Marisol was back to normal now. While at the meter, she summed the whole experience as her having not been in such an intimate position with another man for a long time. The suddenness of it all had sent her emotions out of control and figured she'd be back to normal once the initial shock was over which it did. The young woman now chuckled, thinking back at how silly it was and from Holmes of all people. She thought he would be the last person to have that effect on her..

" _Again, the whole thing was weird and I should just brush it off."_  she dismissed,  _"There's more pressing matters at hand."_

"Flew back from  _Dalian_  Friday." Amanda read from her computer as the writer tuned back in. "Looks like back to back meetings with the sales team."

"Can you print me up a copy?" Holmes requested. The woman agreed. "What about the day he died? Can you tell me where he was?"

"..Sorry, bit of a gap. But I have all his receipts." She quickly retrieved them then, dumping it all on her desk for him to search through.

"What kind of a boss was he, Amanda? Appreciative?" Sherlock squatted down before skimming the receipts for anything that catch his sharp eye. Vallas now stood beside him and roamed too with her own.

She let out a humorless chuckle. "Um, no. That's not a word I'd use. The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag." The younger woman glanced her way, raising a brow. She had not called him Edward or Mr. Van Coon..but a nickname that was hardly what you would call your boss unless you both had a closer relationship than perceived.

" _Hmm, I wonder if an affair was happening? I'll mention it to Sherlock later."_

"Like that hand cream." Holmes noted casually, peering briefly at the luxury hand lotion. "He bought that for you, didn't he?" The PA paused from fixing her hair pin and stared, surprised. A half smile appeared on Marisol's lips; looked like she wouldn't need to tell him now. He already suspected. Shuffling cab tickets out of the way, his fingers stopped on the last one dated March twenty-second—the day of Van Coon's death.

It was handed over to his friend to observe. "Look at this one. Got a taxi from him on the day he died, £18.50."

"That would get him to the office." stated Amanda.

"Not for rush hour. The time on here reads—" corrected the writer with a head shake, giving it to her now.

"Mid-morning. Eighteen would get him as far as—" Holmes interrupted.

"The West End! I remember him saying."

Marisol discovered the next one, a London Underground stub. "Same date, printed at a Tube in Piccadilly."

"So he got a Tube back to the office." The PA became confused. "Why would he get a taxi into town, and then the Tube back?"

"Because he was delivering something heavy." clarified the detective, "You wouldn't lug a package up the escalator."

"Delivering?" Brown eyes grew large in remembrance suddenly. Kneeling beside the man, clear blues peered her way out of the corner of his curiously. When her small hand lifted towards his face, he stiffen. His mind started running a mile a minute with questions and possibilities. But all she did was cup his ear to shield her lips before whispering into it, making him relax..well, somewhat.

"His luggage back at his apartment. You said there was an indentation in it from something big. What he delivered was in there, am I right?" So clever, she was. He couldn't help but face her with a wonderfully pleased expression. Her memory almost matched his own. John would have never gotten it that quickly; not that he wasn't capable of doing so though.

"Glad to see you remembered. Now, we're on an  _almost_  equal page." Sherlock stood and addressed Amanda who was looking at the two curiously.

"To somewhere near Piccadilly Station. Dropped the package, delivered it, and then.." He picked up lastly from the pile a food receipt printed at an espresso bar. "Stopped on his way. He got peckish." It was thrust in Marisol's face then.

"You know where this is, yes?"

"Sure do." She hopped up with a smile; giddy from her assumption being correct once again. "To the batmobile!" The eccentric rolled his eyes with heavy sigh.

* * *

**[Coffee Shop** **near Piccadilly Station; 4:47pm]**

"So you bought your lunch from here en route to the station, but where were you headed from?" Holmes muttered to himself. "Where did the taxi drop you?" He was moving around so erratically. Marisol had trouble keeping up and feared he'd collided into the wrong type of person. Which he did, only luckily it was someone the duo knew well.

"John!" his goddaughter said in surprise upon seeing him.

"Mari? Why..Shouldn't you be working?"

A bashful smile was given. "I was but.."

"I picked her up, so never mind that." the eccentric rudely answered, earning matching glares from the family members. "Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died. Whatever was hidden inside that case, I've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information—credit card bills, receipts. He flew back from China, then he came here."

"Sherlock." Watson called his name firmly but he continued to ramble. The young woman sighed before smacking him across the arm, shouting.

"Oi, git! Shut up for a sec, will ya'?" He frowned but complied. Now with his flatmate's full attention, the doctor pointed across the street towards  _Little China_ at a place called 'The Lucky Cat Emporium.'

"That shop, over there."

Holmes gave an inquiring look. "How could you tell?"

"Lukis' diary." He gestured to it in his hand. "He was here too. He wrote the address." John left them after telling. The man and woman glanced at each other with a shrug before following.

Inside the shop it was quiet with only the shop owner—an old Chinese woman in traditional garbs from her culture. She watched the group as they stepped in, observing. They greeted—well, John and Marisol did—before peering around to subtly look for clues. The place was small and cluttered with items ranging from tea cups to stone statues. The air was thick and strong with jasmine incense. The young woman found the shop interesting and thought about purchasing something. Though, to be honest, she wouldn't have given this place a second look if crossing paths with it from the outside. While contemplating whether or not, Holmes came to stand beside her.

"..If you want something from here, just pick already."

She blinked up at him. "Wha..I don't—"

"Liar. It's written all over your face." he told blankly.

"I'm not that easy to read." Marisol frowned with annoyance.

"By ordinary people, yes." the eccentric said, leaning down towards her with a smirk. "But I'm not, remember?" Her breath sucked in and a light pink dusted her cheeks then. His face was too close for normal, causing those odd thoughts from earlier to arise. As she was struck silence, he tilted his head in curiosity from it. He had expected her to snap at him..But before he could read more into her sudden strange behavior, the old woman behind the counter finally spoke, gaining the trio's attention.

"You want..lucky cat?" she asked suddenly to John, holding a golden  _Maneki-neko_  statue.

Watson shook his head, politely declining. "No, thanks, no."

"£10! £10!" she continued her sales pitch, "I think your wife, she will like." Once again, John refused. Sherlock peered at the young woman beside him and wasn't surprised to see her eying the figurine like a toddler who spied a treat they secretly wanted but wouldn't ask.

He turned towards her again. "Since you're so indecisive, would you like me to pick for you?"

She startled before shaking her head. "If I want something, I'll buy it myself. I don't need you doing it. So, thanks but no thanks." Expecting an indifferent shrug, a smug smile was given instead.

"I know, but you need a push every now and then." Her cheeks darkened from his words. He had read her again. She cursed at herself mentally, having to remember to pay more attention. But hidden among the irritation also was glee. Somehow, she enjoyed discovering how much he paid attention to her whether it was strive for or not.

" _There I go again with those weird thoughts."_  Vallas noted.

"Are you gonna buy?" the old woman inquired the two, wondering if she had a sale in one of them.

"Yes,  _I_ will." emphasized the younger, breaking from her reverie.

Removing her wallet from her coat, she opened it and a bit of paper fluttered to the floor, landing by the eccentric's foot. They both bent down to retrieve it but Sherlock was quicker. Upon discovery, it was instead a vintage price tag with the side facing him blank. Though the other side was not..instead a symbol similar to the mysterious one in red ink greeted his gaze.

Marisol gasped quietly, seeing it too. "I-I remember now!" He suddenly grabbed the writer's hand and pulled her up, dashing out the door like a mad man. John blinked before giving a fast 'good day' to the owner before catching up.

"Where the hell are you two going?" he exclaimed when joining them, trying to match their fast stride.

He ignored him, instead turning to Marisol. "Alright, talk."

"I will..once you let go of me." the young woman uttered; dark eyes shyly glancing down between them. Pausing, lighter ones did the same. His larger hand was cupped around hers, making it impossible to escape. The taller man had completely forgot because it had just felt natural. He released her, turning away with a clearing of his throat.

"So, when Adam—" Vallas began.

"The boy from your job?" her godfather interrupted, even more confused by what was happening.

"Yes." she and the eccentric replied. Only difference was the obvious irritation heard in Sherlock's voice. The young woman rolled her eyes, believing to know why, and then continued.

"Anyway, like I've said before, he gave me the helmet as a gift. He had gotten it from another shop here and that's why the tag has the symbol."

Watson nodded. "Ah, that's also why you two dashed out of there like bats out of hell."

The writer glanced at the genius. "So, what exactly is it then?"

"It's an ancient number system—Hang Zhou." he explained, resuming to walk. "These days only street traders use it. Those were numbers written on the wall at the bank and at the library." The trio stopped in front of a produce stand. Sherlock and John searched through the tags for the Chinese characters alongside English. "Numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect."

"It's a fifteen." remarked John upon finding the second character. "What we thought was the artist's tag, it's a number fifteen."

"And the blindfold, the horizontal line. That was a number as well." An accomplished smirk appeared on Holmes' lips. "The Chinese number one, John."

He smiled big. "We found it."

"Only with help from my helmet's tag." Marisol reminded in a dead tone, crossing her arms.

The eccentric frowned at her. "We would have found out even without it."

"True, but you need a push every now and then." she smirked while repeating his own words.

"Stopit. You're ruining my good mood." he told before brushing past her and Watson.

"I'm not! Though, now that you've said that, it just makes me want to." The writer followed after him; the two beginning their usual banter. The doctor went to join as well, only to pause when a camera flash appeared in the corner of his eye. But when turning the direction it came, he couldn't find the culprit in the crowd.

" _That was..odd.."_  he thought, scurrying after his bickering companions once again.

* * *

**[Chinese Restaurant across from The Lucky Cat; 5:18pm]**

"Two men travel back from China, both head straight for the Lucky Cat emporium." John reviewed from across the table. "What did they see?" Holmes quietly listened, writing the symbols with their translated numbers on a napkin.

"It's not what they saw," he uttered, tucking the napkin safely into his coat. "It's what they both brought back in those suitcases."

"And you don't mean duty free." noted Watson. They paused their discussion for a moment as a waitress came with food.

"Think about what Sebastian told us." Sherlock reminded, "About Van Coon, about how he stayed afloat in the market."

"Lost five million—"

"Made it back in a week. That's how he made such easy money."

"He was a smuggler." Watson exclaimed in understanding.

"Bingo." Marisol drawled, playing with the bobbing arm of the golden cat in front of her. Which had been a gift from none other than the eccentric. Before they entered the restaurant, he had went back into the Lucky Cat. The godfather and daughter assumed he was going to ask more questions. So it was to both their surprise when he returned and handed the figurine to Vallas.

" _Don't look so surprised." His brow raised in question. "You wanted this, right?"_

" _Uh, yeah. But I told you I would get it." she had pouted; her pride feeling somewhat wounded._

" _Think of it as a consolation prize for your discovery." He patted her shoulder, strolling inside the eatery then._

The young woman lightly shook her head upon remembering. Teasing or not, Holmes had gotten her a gift; an incredibly kind gesture she hadn't expected from him. At least not to her. It just seemed he wouldn't bother to do something like that for just anyone. Because of the bizarre action, she wondered if Holmes was warming up to her after a month of knowing each other. Was her presence softening that hard shell of his? The idea strangely made her giddy inside.

"Marisol."

She came back to reality then. "Yeah?"

"Food's here." John smiled. Blinking, the young woman glanced down to find a bowl of Pork Lo Mein in front of her. She was so lost in thought again even the strong aroma and her growling stomach wasn't enough to snap her out of it.

"Twenty four years I've known you," he chuckled fondly, feeling nostalgic. "And I still have to remind you to eat whenever you're stuck in Mari World, haha." The genius spurted out a laugh as well, covering it with a cough though he still received a short glare.

"Please don't bring up embarrassing stuff from my childhood around  _him_." she groaned, her cheeks burning now. "Anyway, back to current facts, Van Coon and Lukis were smugglers. Care to elaborate more, Holmes?"

"Ahem, yes. Cover would have been perfect. Businessman, making frequent trips to Asia. Lukis was the same, a journalist writing about China. Both of them smuggled stuff about. The Lucky Cat was their drop-off."

"But why did they die?" the doctor inquired, "So it doesn't make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they'd finished the job?" The eccentric smirked and went to reply when Vallas beat him to it.

"Easy. Someone must have gotten greedy." she answered matter-of-fact around a mouth full of noodles, "In an illegal business like smuggling, not everyone involved is going to stay loyal. So, yeah, they delivered but just not everything—something that wasn't deemed too important to them apparently."

"And the killer doesn't know which of them took it, so he threatens them both. Right."

Holmes glanced back at the street when noticing something peculiar. An apartment door on the right side of the Lucky Cat with a wet phone book left in front of it. Someone resided there but appeared not to have picked it up..How odd but also a great convenient.

"Remind me." he asked slowly of the two with him, "When was the last time that it rained?" Neither could respond as the man left. John and Marisol gave each other knowing, exasperated looks, wanting nothing more than to finish their meals but they had to keep an eye on the eccentric. Throwing down money on the table, they too left with half-filled stomachs.

* * *

**[Soo Lin's Apartment; 5:21pm]**

Sherlock crouched and brushed his thumb across the pages of the book. It wasn't soaked, only lightly damped. "It's been here since Monday." he noted before ringing the bell below the feminine written nameplate—Soo Lin Yao. No answer which wasn't unsurprising. There was just going to have to be another way inside, an illegal way.

"No one's been in that flat for at least three days." the genius remarked as the trio went through the back alley.

"Could have gone on holiday." suggested John.

Stopping under a fire escape placed below Soo Lin's window, he smirked. "Do you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?" He took a few steps back before jumping, grabbing hold of the escape's ladder. Not waiting for the others, he hurried up into the place. The whole scene was deja vu; similar to what happen back at Van Coon's.

"Sherlock!" Watson exclaimed.

"Don't waste your breath, John." sighed Marisol, heading back the way they came. "Let's meet him by the door."

"Yeah, a lot of good that did last time." The older man grumbled, but complied. "Hopefully, another dead body won't be waiting for us."

* * *

Back inside the small one-person flat, Holmes had climbed through the window but his arm bumped hard into an unexpected flower vase. He managed to catch it before breaking and spied spill water on the rug. Seems he wasn't the only one breaking the law and they had done the same; the reason why the window had been also left open.

"Someone else has been here." he shouted to his companions, "Somebody else broke into the flat and knocked over the vase, just like I did."

The door bell buzzed, followed by the veteran's annoyed voice. "Do you think maybe you could let us in this time?" He didn't. Instead, the eccentric began poking around, examining items from the leftover laundry to the spoiled milk in the fridge.

"Can you not keep doing this, please?" John told through the mail slot.

"I'm not the first." repeated Sherlock.

"What?"

"Somebody's been in there before me." But John still couldn't hear him. When he was about to shout it out again, his light colored eyes landed upon the floor.

—A faint footprint could be seen in the rug.

_size eight feet_

_small, but athletic_

* * *

"I'm wasting my breath." John said, displeased.

"I told you, didn't I?" Marisol replied, "Try the bell again. Maybe it'll get on his nerves and he'll have to answer." Handing over her bag, she then started heading back towards the alley.

"And where are you going?"

"Just following a gut feeling. Keep ringing the bell." she tossed over her shoulder before disappearing. Watson called after her to no avail. He angrily tsked but stayed at the door, continuing his action before.

* * *

—A picture frame with fingerprints was the next clue.

_small,_ _strong hands_

"Our acrobat." Sherlock pondered to himself. "Why didn't he close the window when he lef—" A grimace appeared on his face then. "Oh, stupid, stupid! Obvious. He's still here." His gaze then searched for places the person could hide and spotted a Chinese folding screen in the corner. He began slowly approaching it..

* * *

Vallas sprinted down the muddy alley. Her stomach had suddenly began to twist back at the door; a usual warning sign for when bad stuff would happen. Most times, she could stop herself from acting upon the notion but her feet began moving on their own before realizing. And the voice in her head kept repeating phrases, frantically urging her.

" _Hurry..Get to Sherlock..Help him..Get to him.."_

* * *

—A gloved hand reached out and pulled the screen back, showing only some miscellaneous items were hidden there.

* * *

The young woman stopped under the ladder and squatted before jumping high into the air. Her fingers barely brushed the metal bar on her first try. Cursing, she tried a couple more times until managing to grasp it. Once the ladder was momentarily stationary on the ground, she flew up towards the window.

* * *

—All of a sudden, Sherlock gagged as a strip of cloth wrapped his neck and started to tighten. He didn't have time to react, allowing his attacker to bring him to the floor. Many things were happening all at once. Air was becoming less and spots were dancing in his vision, making it difficult to observing the assassin. Watson's angry voice in the background barely registered. He rasped out his roommate's name, hoping to be heard. But his consciousness wavered from lack of oxygen. And just before he became faint, a loud cry appeared along with the sound of shattering glass.

* * *

Marisol froze as she peered in and discovered the genius being choked to death by a person dressed in black. But right away her blood began to boil with a protective rage. Her friend needed her. He would died without her help. Throwing caution to the wind, she slipped inside and grabbed the first nearest object—the vase. Crossing the short distance in two quick strides, the decorative piece came smashing down across the attacker's back.

They stumbled, releasing the unconscious Holmes but recovering also. Before the writer could defend herself, she was backhanded hard across the face. A hand then grasped her neck while she staggered and her body was thrown into the table which the vase had been moments ago. It shattered into pieces from the force, leaving Marisol unmoving amongst its' broken remains. Seeing she was now incapacitated, the assassin then knelt down beside Holmes to place something in his pocket and disappeared the way they came.

* * *

**[Inside: Soo Lin's Apartment; 5:24pm]**

A sudden buzzing from the doorbell startled Sherlock awake. He spluttered and coughed as he sat up on his knees, looking around quickly for his attacker. But his gaze landed on the broken pieces of the vase beside him instead. He remembered having heard glass breaking..Groaning and clattering came from behind him then. The eccentric's head whipped around and was greeted by Marisol slowly sitting up from the debris.

"M-Marisol?" he called out in his raspy voice, joining her side. She looked a bit worst for wear now. Her hair and clothes were messy. Her face had thin scratches, bottom lip split, and left cheek puffy and red. A trail of blood running down the opposite from a gash. The writer also moved carefully, signaling her back was probably bruised from the impact. But still, when hearing Holmes say her name, brown eyes shined as she smiled with joy.

"Sherlock? You're okay!" she exclaimed. Before said person could reply, slender arms wrapped around him. The man stiffen in surprise, forgetting how to react upon receiving a hug. It was very shocking, more so because it was from Vallas. But the writer, for the moment, didn't care and was just glad her friend made it out all right. Embarrassment could wait for later.

"Sorry if hugs aren't your thing and I'm getting blood on your favorite coat but.." Her hands gripped the back of his coat tight and her voice became shaky. "..Just deal with it for a second.." The sound of it made his heart clench. Though they argued most times, she had truly grown to care about his well being, showing him he was valued as a close friend. The thought filled him with pure joy that usually only came after solving a case.

He smirked, patting her shoulder gently. "It's been more than a second, Vallas." The young woman pulled back, unamused.

"I know that, git." she deadpanned, making him smirk wider. His next action would surprise his companion and himself. One of his large hand reached over and brushed her bangs with tenderness—like he had wanted to do back at the restaurant. The caress caused the writer's gaze to become half-hooded as it felt strangely marvelous. But as quick as it happen, his touch was gone much to her disappointment.

He then quietly uttered, "Thank you, plain girl." Marisol blinked up at him, returning to her senses with a bright blush.

"You're acting odd." she replied, turning away abashed. "Are you getting enough oxygen to that oversized brain of yours?"

" _Haha, how cute."_  thought Holmes with a grin. Before doing something else brash, loud banging broke whatever atmosphere had been occurring between the two.

"One minute, Holmes. Or else I'm leaving and calling the cops on you." joined John's aggravated voice.

"I think we've kept him waiting long enough." his goddaughter noted, moving to stand. Her companion helped and then reached into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief along with something else..the black papered origami.

Dark eyes widen. "Sherlock, that's—"

The cloth was handed to her. "Press this on your right cheek. It's still bleeding." Tucking away the origami, he fixed himself up some before striding towards the door. Watson met him with a peeved but questioning look.

"The milk's gone off and the washing's started to smell." the genius informed fast, causing his voice become raspy again. "Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago."

"Somebody?"

"Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her."

"You've gone all croaky. Are you getting a cold?" his roommate questioned, staring at him curiously. "Also, any ideas where?"

"How about here?" Marisol appeared, holding the note left by Andy which happen to be written on an envelop with the museum's name. Sherlock took it to glance over. But the doctor was too concern and bewildered upon seeing her to care.

"What is the hell happen to you?" Blue eyes turned the eccentric's direction who started walking away. "Sherlock? Hey, you had something to do with this, didn't ya'? Don't walk off! Answer me, you bastard!" His shouting started drawing outside attention. From how she looked to her godfather angry yelling after Holmes, the people looking would assumed some sort of violence had occurred between them. So Vallas calmly shut the door and grabbed Watson's hand.

"Oh, come on, he's leaving us." she told, tugging him along to head after Holmes. " _I'll_  explain everything to you on the way."

**-TBC-**


	12. Black Lotus

**[Detour: 221B Baker Street; 5:47pm]**

After the retelling of Soo Lin's apartment, John soon calmed down but only after forcing Sherlock to make a trip back to their place so he could patch his goddaughter up. Surprisingly, the eccentric gave no complaint and instead strongly agreed that they should.

As they walked in, Mrs. Hudson came out happily to greet them and nearly had a heart attack upon seeing the beaten girl. Since the older woman had grown quite fond of her in the past few weeks, it wasn't a surprise when she started scolding Holmes for getting her involved with his dangerous work.

Watson scurried upstairs towards his room to retrieve his med kit and to avoid a possible reprimanding also. While the genius just ignored her and trekked into his sitting room as she chewed his ear off. It took poor Marisol several times to reassured her that if she hadn't, Holmes might not have been around anymore. Once calmed and gone, the young woman sighed heavily and flopped down in the red armchair, forgetting about her injuries.

"Ah, shit! Ow!" she hissed harshly as pain shot up her spine, making her curl forward into herself and squeeze her eyes shut. Never had she experienced such sharp pain before that it caused her entire body to stiffen and made her whimper aloud. Her mind was so consumed with it that Vallas didn't noticed Sherlock had came to kneel in front of her until feeling his hands grip her arms softly.

"Breathe in and out very slowly." he told her in a reposeful murmur. "It'll help distract your mind from the pain." She listened after a second and soon her body relaxed, allowing her to sit up. When the pain completely subsided, tired brown eyes opened. Clear ones filled with guilt greeted her but only lasted for a moment. Marisol hadn't expected that and blinked a few times in surprise.

"You're blinking a lot. Seeing all right?" Holmes inquired, doctor-like. Very similar to how John would ask. "Because if you are not, then—"

"Relax, Holmes. I can see fine." replied the writer, brushing him off. "At least I think..because I swore I saw some guilt in your eyes just now."

He stood with a scoff, sitting across from her in his own chair. "That wasn't guilt."

"Uh-huh..Look, though you'll never want to admit it aloud, don't go feeling at fault that I got hurt, all right? I would have done the same for John too. I always think about others before myself. It's a bad trait of mine which I assume you already know well." The eccentric didn't say a word, just looked at her.

"And I'll never regret doing what I did." Marisol continued softly, not meeting his keen gaze out of embarrassment. "Hell, I'd do it again in a heartbeat if need be. You're my friend and friends always look out for each other, don't forget that."

"..That's something I wouldn't know firsthand." stated the eccentric honestly though with a bit of struggle at first to admit such truth.

She glanced at him then, giving a soft smile. "Well, now you do. Which will be helpful in the future no doubt, heh." He hummed in agreement. Silence passed between them, leaving the misfits to their own thoughts.

Vallas' mind drifted back to the short scene back at the apartment. Sherlock had allowed her to hug him. She knew that was a privilege few people had been given. Normally, she respected his personal space but knowing he wasn't dead..that she had not been too late in saving him overtook her with delight that manners went out the window. And the man was so warm; probably from wearing many layers or his soul in general was just that. When they pulled apart, there was more the writer wished to say, only for it to be forgotten as his gloved hand gently touched her with a 'thank you'. Her hand reached up then to brush the spot at the memory.

"You're thinking about what happen between us in Soo Lin's home."

Dark eyes blinked, cheeks tinting pink. "What? No, I'm not."

A mischievous smirk formed on Sherlock's lips. "Always so easy to read. Would you like me to go into finer details?"

"No, I don't need you deducing me. And how many times do I have to say this?" she snapped, bothered. "You don't know  _everything_  about me unlike you think you do."

"Yes, but I know enough." the detective reminded calmly which made her frown. "And that always helps eventually getting the rest." Before receiving a snide remark from her, John finally rejoined them.

"Sorry, it took so long." he said while grabbing a chair from the table to place beside Marisol. "Two weeks here and I'm still not all unpacked."

"John, check her torso first. It has the most possible damage." his flatmate requested immediately.

"Ah, right." the doctor nodded, not questioning his words. When knowing well someone as acute as him, it was normal to not give a second glance. Watson turned his attention fully on Marisol. "I'm gonna need you to remove your shirt, Mari."

"Yeah, sure thing." She finished unbuttoning her torn blouse when remembering there was someone else in the room with them. The young woman's eyes shot up to find Sherlock watching with an uninterested but intent stare. A bright blush covered her wounded cheeks when meeting his own. She should also feel embarrass at having Watson see her as well but he was her god father and a doctor above all else. It was the thought of this man seeing her semi-naked—something no other man as well have seen—that made her so self-aware of him. It didn't help that his clear blue eyes seemed to turn a shade darker..

"Marisol?" John called, snapping her back to the present.

The writer glared at Holmes."Can you please go into the kitchen or somewhere?"

"Why?" he smirked slightly, "I basically got an idea of what your body looks like already from our ride to the bank together."

Brown eyes harden. "Just get out, you creep!"

"Holmes, please." sighed Watson.

"Fine, fine." He swiftly stood and stomped towards the kitchen as suggested. Breathing a sigh of relief, Vallas finally removing her blouse and camisole; glad she wore a bra that day. Carefully, she turned to allow her god father to view her back clearly.

A sharp intake of breath from John made the genius peek over. His vision was filled with a smooth lightly tan back..covered in various areas with darkening bruises. The very back that had been pressed perfectly against his chest earlier..had him swear to protect _her_ , not the opposite. They were so unsettling to see on her little form and caused anger to fill his very core. He didn't even want to imagine if she died back there. He turned away then and hurriedly went to his room; it took his whole resolve to keep Holmes from doing something terrible.

Removing all the items needed from his med kit, Watson got quickly to work. He started by feeling around her ribs to make sure none were broken. Luckily, nothing felt broken and a numbing balm was placed on the already-formed bruises there and on her cheek. The scratches and split lip only needed to be cleaned and sterile but the gash on her cheek was deep enough to acquire stitches. Up until then, the writer was calm and obedient but at the thought of a needle piercing through her skin had her panic. That was when Sherlock decided to return. He walked up to her side, placing his gloved hand gently on her shoulder.

"Just breathe, remember?" She nodded with a shaky exhale. John warned her she was going to feel a pinch and not to move too much. He was right. There was a pinch which hadn't been as bad as she was told. It was as he pulled to tighten the string and close the wound that hurt like hell. She almost made her bottom lip bleed again from the pain but a soft squeeze to her shoulder comfortingly reminded her to keep taking a breath.

"There. Good as new." her god father said once done, placing a bandage over the stitches.

"Thanks for the care, John." smiled the young woman appreciatively after throwing a grateful glance in the genius' direction who gave a curt nod in response.

Watson placed a loving kiss to her forehead. "Think nothing of it, Mari. I'll go get you a shirt to wear."

"That's all right, John. I already went and got her one of my own while you checked her back." Holmes informed, handing off one of his favorite purple dress shirts. "That way we can leave right away and get to the museum just before closing."

"Okay, seriously. John, check him to make sure he doesn't have a concussion or something." Vallas asked as she eased the shirt on with a smirk. That familiar pleasant scent of oak surrounding her, soothing herself farther. "He's acting  _very_  weird."

"Yes, very. Maybe that assassin knocked something correct back in place." the other man jested, grinning. He glared at the two before walking away in irritation, causing them to burst out laughing.

* * *

**[At the National Antiques Museum: Ancient China Section;**   **6:30pm]**

"When was the last time that you saw her?" Sherlock asked of Andy, the young man who left the note at Soo Lin's apartment.

"Three days ago. Here at the museum." he answered, watching the eccentric pace around the area to take every detail in. "This morning they told me she'd resigned. Just like that. Left her work unfinished."

John stood in front of him listening to what he gave while Marisol stood quietly at his side. She had a legal pad in hand and wrote down everything stated, mostly to distract herself from the concern glances Andy gave her now and then. The young woman had taken a helpful note from Holmes and acted as nonchalant as possible.

As said person strode about, his gaze couldn't help wandering to her. The writer had fixed her hair somewhat and replaced her beanie—thankfully hadn't been lost during the fight—back on to cover the remaining dishevelment. Given an old cargo jacket of John's to wear too over his borrowed shirt, she looked a tad presentable even with her obvious, glaring wounds. From what he saw back at 221B, the shirt was far too big on her slender body, not fitting well like her blouse had. But just the idea alone of Vallas wearing a pair of his clothing strangely satisfied him. It also made Sherlock want to see her in more.

Vallas felt eyes on her all of a sudden. Believing it to be Andy again, she fixed herself to give an intimidating glare and glanced up. It faded away as a swirling storm of blues belonging to Holmes collided with her, causing air to rush out. It was the second time in less than an hour that she had encounter that image. It filled her with an emotion like she never before had felt in her entire life. Even a glance from Adam never provoked her so. But she remained cool, just raising a brow at him. He said nothing and simply came to a stop beside Watson, not giving her another glance.

" _What is going on with him?"_  the young woman exasperated with confusion, resisting the urge to chew her lip.  _"The weird stares? The increasing kindness?..But more importantly, me. Why is it all having such an affect on me?"_

"What was the last thing she did on her final afternoon?" the genius inquired then. Andy proceeded to lead the trio towards the storage room where Soo Lin went to and from everyday until her sudden disappearance.

"She does this demonstration for the tourists, a tea ceremony." he explained along the way, "So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here." Coming to one of the rows of moving shelves, he began opening it to allow them all in for a look. However, Sherlock noticed something familiar right as they walked inside. Stepping from the group, he walked to a marble statue of woman that stood uncovered and in plain sight. It's beauty had been marred by the yellow number warning. Having enough clues and answers, the eccentric told his companions they were leaving now.

* * *

**[Outside: On the steps of the National Antiques Museum; 6:51pm]**

"We have to get to Soo Lin Yao." he declared once outside; the sun having already set and night life buzzing around the three.

"That's if she's still alive." remarked Vallas. John nodded in agreement.

"Sherlock!" came a shout of his name suddenly. Looking to their left, Raz came jogging up.

"Oh, look who it is." sighed the doctor unhappily.

Marisol raised a brow. "The kid who got you in trouble, I presume?" He nodded with a grimace. The tagger finally joined them, a bit out of breath. He gave a respectful nod towards the young woman which she returned before speaking.

"Found something you'll like." he told with an amused smirk.

* * *

**[Converted Skate Park: Downtown London; 7:00pm]**

Nine minutes later, the trio and Raz were among pre-teens and older wannabe X-Gamers. An abandoned tube station converted into a skate park where people did tricks with their bikes or boards but most the times, ended up breaking bones. It was also a frequent resident for homeless. Graffiti littered basically every inch of visible space surrounding them—the perfect den for a warning to go unnoticed unless searched for.

"You want to hide a tree, then a forest is the best place to do it, wouldn't you say?" noted Holmes to his friends as they strolled through the commotion. "People would just walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message."

"There, I spotted it earlier." pointed Raz then towards a pillar in the far back. It was heavily graffiti with various layers of art that had been tagged over multiple times. But pieces of the yellow warning could still be seen peeking out from under them.

"They've been here." the genius uttered before addressing Raz, "And that's the exact same paint?"

"Yeah." the boy reassured.

"John, Marisol, if we're going to decipher this code, we need to look for more evidence."

"Let me guess, this is the part where we split up and look around here?" groaned the writer. She wasn't looking forward to a no-likely tedious search.

Sherlock smirked; blue eyes lit with excitement. "Exactly."

* * *

They separated to different sections of the lot—Sherlock to the north, John to the south and east, and Marisol to the west. Holmes managed to discover a freshly used-up can of Michigan paint by the tracks. But John was the most successful out of the three. Walking along in the south part, he spotted a trail of yellow paint droplets leading to a wall sprayed with a whole secret message. Getting his phone and hitting the number one on his speed dial, he called Marisol. The young woman was currently looking at a flyer for a Chinese circus in London Friday night for one night only when her  _Dalek_  ringtone sounded off.

Without looking she answered, "Please tell me you found something big and we can leave?"

"Oh, you couldn't be more right." John's voice responded, "I'm in the south part. Follow the tracks down till you find a brick wall."

"Sure thing." she said giddy; about to hang up when he suddenly asked how to use the camera on his phone. Ripping off the corner of the flyer, she ran towards the south while giving a fast explanation.

* * *

The eccentric was still searching when Watson found him further up the tracks. "Answer your phone!" he shouted once near, "I've been calling you. I found it." The two then hurried to where the message was left..only to find the wall painted top to bottom completely black.

"It's been painted over.." the doctor said, flabbergasted. "I don't understand. It was..here. Ten minutes ago. I saw it. A whole load of graffiti."

"Somebody doesn't want me to see it." figured Holmes. He stood in front of John and placed his hands on the sides of his head.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Shh! John, concentrate. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."

"What? Why? Why?" he questioned in bewilderment, " _What are you doing?_ "

The other man began to spin themselves in a full circle. "I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw." Vallas appeared and gave the two a puzzled expression at what they were doing.

"What the..um, I don't mean to interrupt but why the bloody hell are you two spinning in the dark?"

"Not now, Vallas. I need John to focus." Sherlock told harshly before continuing with his flatmate. "Can you picture it?"

"Yeah."

"Can you remember it?"

"Yes, definitely."

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"Is this about the message? Because John—" interrupted the writer.

"Quiet! How much can you remember it?" the genius asked him. The young woman threw her hands up in exasperation and inspected the black-over wall instead, leaving them to do their unusual interaction.

"Look, don't worry." Watson tried to assure.

"Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate."

"Well, don't worry, I remember all of it."

"Really?" Sherlock queried, skeptical. John shook him off, taking a step back in case he was grabbed again.

"Well, at least I would, if I could get to my pockets." he declared, pulling out his phone and showing him. "I took a photograph." He observed it, feeling slightly like a fool though he wasn't going to voice his overreaction.

"From this I can say we're  _definitely_  being followed." Marisol drawled, glancing over Holmes' shoulder to peer at the picture. "..Oh, lovely."

* * *

**[221B Baker Street; 7:33am on March 25t** **h** **]**

The morning sun just began to peek through the curtains. The writer let out a loud yawn, not bothering to be ladylike after pulling an all-nighter printing off different parts of the message and matching the Hang Zhou numbers to the correct English ones. Her whole body felt stiff and sore and there was a dull pain in her back. John sat across her at the small work table; his head rested in his hand as he dozed for a bit. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed unaffected by the lack of sleep they all endured. He was busy observing the various pictures on his  _spider web_ , figuring them out bit by bit.

"Always in pairs, John, look." he informed, startling said person awake. "Numbers..come with partners."

"God, I need to sleep." muttered the other man.

"Me too. That, and a shower." chimed his goddaughter tiredly.

"Oh, god yes." Watson all but moaned at the thought of hot water.

"Why did he paint it so near the tracks?" proceeded Sherlock, not hearing them complain.

"No idea." John said with a slight stretch, careless at the moment.

"Thousands of people pass by there every day."

"Just 20 minutes.." Vallas whined, throwing herself across the table.

"..Of course. Of course! He wants information." the genius determined, "He's trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back. It's somewhere here, in a code." He then grabbed a few pictures off the wall and headed towards the door. "We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao."

"Good." the doctor and writer deadpanned before reluctantly following.

* * *

**[the National Antiques Museum: Ancient China Section; 7:54am]**

"Two men who traveled back from China were murdered," Sherlock barked at Andy. As always when close to finding the truth, the man became progressively agitated. "And their killer left them messages in Hang Zhou numerals."

"Soo Lin Yao is in danger." pressed John calmly, not wanting to scare the kid unlike his apathetic companion. "That cipher, it was just the same pattern as the others. He means to kill her as well."

"So are you sure you've stressed every source to find her?" Marisol joined in the questioning.

"Look, I've tried everywhere—friends, colleagues. I don't know where she's gone." the young man stressed, "I mean, she could be a thousand miles away."

"What are you looking at?" the doctor asked when noticing the eccentric staring off somewhere behind him. For a moment, he thought he had gone into his 'mind palace' but Holmes then pointed at a glass case filled with old clay cups and teapots.

"Tell me more about those teapots." he required of Andy, walking closer. The two family members glanced at each other, confused.

"Uh, the pots were her obsession. They need urgent work. If they dry out, then the clay can start to crumble. Apparently, you have to just keep making tea in them."

"Yesterday, only one of those pots was shining." the genius informed the others, "Now, there are two."

* * *

**[the National Antiques Museum; 9:30pm]**

All was quiet as it should be in the museum. Soo Lin didn't expect anyone she knew to be there. Since for the past two nights, she stealthily came inside through an old passageway underneath the building without detection. Which was mostly thanks to the museum's lack of security cameras and knowing the guard's patrol hours. She knew she shouldn't be there with someone out for her head but caring for the tea pots were her only way for normality in her secretive lifestyle. So, the woman prepared the tea as usual, completely consumed in the serene method.

"Fancy a biscuit with that?" A startled shriek escaped her and the pot currently in her hands slipped free. The ancient artifact would have been lost if not for Sherlock's fast relaxes and close proximity. Blues eyes looked up at her.

"Centuries old. Don't want to break that." he told lightly, handing the pot back before giving a smug greeting. "..Hello."

* * *

"You saw the cipher. Then you know he is coming for me." Soo Lin noted to the trio now sitting with her at the light table.

"You've been clever to avoid him so far." stated Holmes.

"I had to finish. To finish this work." Her eyes lowered and moved over the artifacts briefly. "It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me."

"Who is he? Have you met him before?"

"When I was a girl, we met in China." she explained, "I recognized his..signature."

"The cipher, right?" coaxed Marisol gently.

A small nod was given. "Only he would do this. Zhi Zhu."

"Zhi Zhu?" repeated Watson.

"The spider." Sherlock translated simply to his companions. The Chinese woman removed her left shoe then. Under the heel of her foot was a simple tattoo—a circle with a flower inside done in black ink.

"You know this mark?" she asked of the genius.

"Yes. It's the mark of a Tong."

The family members gave puzzled expressions. "Huh?"

"Ancient crime syndicate, based in China."

"Every foot soldier bears the mark. Everyone who hauls for them." Soo Lin educated.

"Hauls?" The doctor met her gaze. "You mean you were a smuggler?"

"I was fifteen." the woman answered, telling part of her tragic story. "My parents were dead. I had no livelihood. No way of surviving, day-to-day, expect to work for the bosses."

The eccentric's expression was hard, focus. "Who are they?"

"They are called the Black Lotus. By the time I was 16, I was taking thousands of pounds worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England." A small, genuine smile lit her pretty face as she peered around the room. "They gave me a job, here. Everything was good. New life."

"And he came looking for you." Sherlock finished piecing the story.

"Yes." Soo Lin said, on the verge of tears now. She managed to hold them back some though. "I hoped, after five years..maybe they would have forgotten me. But they never really let you leave. A small community like ours..they're never very far away. He came to my flat. He asked me to help him to track down something that was stolen."

"And you've no idea what is was?" Vallas questioned.

"I refused to help."

"So, you knew him well when you were living back in China?" pondered John aloud.

"..He's your brother." the writer stated. Soo Lin looked at her with a 'how did you know?' expression. She smirked slightly. "You wouldn't look so betrayed if he just someone you worked with, even for several years. Betrayal always hurts more with family."

"Yes, you are very right." she smiled sadly, "Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus or starve on the streets like beggars. My brother has become their puppet. In the power of the one they call Shan—the Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away. He said  _I_ had betrayed him. The next day I came to work and the cipher was waiting."

Sherlock laid out the photos then. "Can you decipher these?"

"These are numbers."

"Yes, I know."

"Here," Her finger rested on the graffiti painting from Shad Sanderson. "The line across the man's eyes, it's the Chinese number one."

"And this one is fifteen." finished the detective; already knowing. "But what's the code?"

"All the smugglers know it." Soo Lin informed, "It's based upon a book—" Suddenly, the power went completely out, shrouding the group in semi-darkness. She breathed unsteadily. "He's here. Zhi Zhu has found me."

Holmes ran then, leaving them behind. John tried going after him but thought better of it at the moment. Instead, he grabbed his goddaughter and Soo Lin and had the three of them hide behind a table closer to the wall. The eccentric, now in the first floor, searched frantically around for Zhi Zhu..only to have him find him first. From the second level, shots were fired. Bullets whizzed by him as Sherlock dived for cover behind a large statue.

* * *

"I have to go and help him." the doctor uttered upon hearing the gunfire. "Bolt the door after me." He then hurried towards the door. The writer scrambled from her spot beside him, following closely.

"What else I should do?" He opened the door, glancing back and about to tell her to just stay hidden when the words fall short. An expression of composed firmness graced her wounded face. At the sight of it, he was reminded of her father Michael. He would have the same expression during even the fiercest battles. She never given such a look before and it seemed to age her completely. Watson officially knew then that she was no longer the girl who used to hide behind his leg and looked to him for protection. Instead, a strong woman stood in front of him; one that could face any problem just fine on her own.

John's hand came to rest on her shoulder. "Look after Soo Lin. She's in your care for the time being." She nodded once, surprised by his order. Giving a soft squeeze, he left and Vallas returned quickly back to the other woman's side once locking the door.

* * *

Meanwhile, the detective gave chase after the assassin. He disappeared from the balcony and seemed to head in the direction of the Primitives section. Sherlock headed that way, only to be ambushed. He barely dodged the bullets in time; one of them flying far too close by his head. He took shelter once again behind a pillar.

"Careful!" he exclaimed during the gunfire, "Some of those skull are over two hundred thousand years old. Have a bit of respect." The shots ceased afterwards. Astonishingly thinking what he said had worked in his favor, he sarcastically thanked the assassin. No response came, neither in speech nor bullets. Blue eyes then peeked around to find no one..

* * *

"I don't hear anymore shots." noted Vallas, "That's either means the boys got your brother.." She paused, continuing in a nervous tone. "..or worse." She peered at Soo Lin. The poor woman's body was tense and shaking ever so lightly that Marisol feared if she touched her she'd crumble physically and emotionally. She, no more than a victim of horrible circumstance, didn't deserve what was coming for her. That's why it was up to the writer to make sure she made it out okay. Tired of being like sitting ducks, the younger woman stood abruptly and startled Soo Lin in the process.

"W-What's wrong?"

"We have to go. If your brother is good enough to sneak into a supposedly high security building, it should be a breeze for him to get in here." She reached down and brought the hesitant former smuggler to her feet. Marisol then tugged her by the hand towards the door her two companions had disappeared through; her strength surprising the other. But just before she could grab the knob, her body was roughly pulled to a halt.

"Wait, please!" begged Soo Lin firmly. An impatient look was thrown her way but Vallas stayed put. She proceeded in a softened tone, "Before we do..I want to say thank you for helping me, you and your friends."

"..You're welcome, Soo Lin but you'll get to say that to John and Sherlock soon too." the writer said with a genuine smile. A similar but sad one formed on the other woman's lips at that.

"Marisol, was it?" Said person nodded once. She then pulled her into a sudden hug, whispering. "You are a good person..I hope we met again in another, more peaceful life."

Unease filled the younger woman. "Soo Lin, what—" She didn't manage to ask as a sharp pain struck her completely before the world went black.

* * *

Moments later..the sound of a single gunshot stilled John's search. A chill quickly crept up his spine and dread made his stomach drop upon realizing it came from the direction the girls were.

"Oh my god.." he breathed in horror, rushing back that way.

Once inside the room, blue eyes frantically scanned the darkness for any signs of them. What he stumbled on instead was that horrid sight of a lifeless Soo Lin graced with the taunting origami lotus on her open palm. The doctor was immediately filled with remorseful guilt but it was short-lived as he remembered Marisol had been with her.

Right then, someone carefully touched his arm and he spun around; ready to fight if need be. The writer stood there, still appearing how he left her but with teary eyes now. Before he could even ask if she was all right, she collapsed against him.

"Soo Lin, she.." she sobbed brokenly into his shoulder, "I-I promised to protect her..but I— _I'm so sorry_."

Her godfather shushed her, soothingly stroking her curly hair in comfort. "It's okay. You did everything you could. And Soo Lin knew that as well so don't blame yourself, Mari." The young woman only cried harder. Watson just continued to console her, hoping it would ease her like when she was small. That's how Holmes found the family members when he returned—John embracing her with fatherly protection and Vallas pouring out her sorrows in the darkness.

**-TBC-**


	13. Do unto Others..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, everybody!!

 

**[New Scotland Yard; 10:45pm]**

An hour later, after calling and giving statements to the police, the investigating trio found themselves speaking once again to Dimmock. Well, more like Sherlock and John were. Marisol stayed quiet, allowing them to get through to the stubborn Detective Inspector as she was still shaken up over Soo Lin's death. So, she stood off to the side, listening and trying very hard not to interact. But it was proving difficult as the other man chose to ignored her two companions.

"How many murders is it going to take," questioned John angrily, who was also still affected. "Before you start believing that this manic's out there?" No answer was given as Dimmock simply walked between the two men to peer through papers. The nonchalant action caused the writer to finally snap. She pushed herself off the wall and stormed over with a demanding voice that had everyone else in the room glance their way.

"A young girl was gunned down tonight! That's three victims in three days." She pointed a stern finger at him. "You're supposed to be finding him."

His gaze lifted to meet her heated one. "I would if I had a better description of this so called murderer but the only witness," He mockingly air quoted the last word towards her. "Was passed out on the floor as the latest victim was killed."

"Well, excuse me for having been caught off-guard. But that's still no excuse for you not to be taking this matter more seriously."

"You want my honest opinion?"

"No, but I have feeling that won't stop you." the young woman remarked snarkily.

"Marisol, please." sighed her godfather, knowing this argument wouldn't end well if continued.

"I think you might have done it just to tie the other deaths to this one, seeing as you don't have much of an alibi." he declared, "And seeing as how you hang around a death-obsessed freak like—" He didn't get to finish as a loud slap suddenly filled the tense air. Everything and everyone froze from the sound. Normally, if someone assaulted an officer, they'd be apprehend immediately but that was only because the blow hadn't been delivered to its intended target. Sherlock spied the attack before it happen and stepped between them.

Realizing what occurred, Vallas recoiled her hand in shock and rushed out of the room with her eyes downcast in shame. John went to go after her but was stopped by Holmes who silently shook his head. He felt she needed to be alone this time. The room resumed to it's normal clatter with the current event witness added along. Dimmock causally cleared his throat as if nothing happen and continued shuffling through documents.

The eccentric faced him then, stating. "Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers. A gang called the Black Lotus operating here in London—" The detective leaned in closer condescendingly. "Right under your nose."

The other man met his eye, responding though his tone was full of doubt. "Can you prove that?" Holmes straighten, seeming offended, while Watson looked away in disbelief.

"Meet me at St. Barts when you're done pretending to busy." was all he instructed, turning to John. "Head back home and get some rest, John."

"But Marisol—"

"Don't worry, I'll find her."

His flatmate eyed him curiously. "All right..but have her call me when you do." He was given a short nod before the taller man walked away without another word.

* * *

**[A few blocks down from Scotland Yard; 11:00pm]**

Sherlock found her alone inside a local coffee shop that stayed open late. He called her cell first but was sent straight to voice mail so he had to trek on foot. Though, he figured a coffee shop or cafe would mostly be the place she'd end up, knowing her love for food and the beverage. He caught sight of the back of the young woman's familiar coat in the brightly lit window. She must have sat there assuming one or both of her companions would try to find her and she'd be easier to spot. So, he strolled inside and took the seat across from her quietly. She didn't meet his eyes as he did, instead staring out at the dark street. They stayed like that for a few moments before a heavy sigh passed between Marisol's lips.

"How much trouble am I in?"

"None. Your hand struck me so you won't be charged with assaulting a member of the law." A slight smirk appeared at the corner of his mouth. "And you don't have to worry about me charging you either."

A humorless laugh slipped from her. "Good to know." she uttered, taking a sip of her drink all while still keeping her gaze outside. Holmes shifted in his seat, awkward. Consoling someone, or anyone to be more accurate, wasn't his strong suit; mathematics and chemistry were. Hell, learning to play the oboe seemed ten times easier than dealing with a person's quick-changing emotions from saying just one wrong utterance. But for some bizarre reason, he wanted to make this peculiar girl across him feel better.

"..Vallas, look at me." he requested in a low tone, only to be purposely ignored. He sighed with mild irritation. She could be so dour when she chose to.

Leather gloved hand reached across the small space then to grasp under her chin and gently forced her face towards him. The writer at last peered his way with a tiny gasp of surprise. She was then greeted by his frowning face..and the glaring red mark that contrasted with his pale skin. The surprise quickly contorted into guilt as she squeezed her eyes shut.

"I'm sorry.." Marisol suddenly choked out, trying very hard not to cry so the detective didn't become even more uncomfortable. But mostly because she didn't want him to see her cry. She hated crying in front of anyone who wasn't family.

"It's fine, no need to apologize. You were still emotional over Soo Lin which is understandable." His frown deepened to a grimace then. "And that clueless owl wasn't helping either." She let out a genuine chuckle when hearing his nickname for Dimmock. The sound filled Sherlock with small glee.

Solemnity returned to her. "True, but I was doing okay even with Dimmock's dismissive attitude and accusing me of murder. It was up until he called you a freak that I just..." Her voice trailed off, not able to say with the reminder constantly there every time she glanced her friend's way.

A nonchalant shrug was given. "As I've said before, it doesn't bother me and neither should it you."

"But it does bothers me!" she stressed loudly. The two had been speaking in hushed tones since there was only a few people in the shop. So, when the others glanced their way with curiosity, she blushed pink and lowered her gaze and tone before continuing.

"Yes, you have crappy social skills and act a bit odd," The eccentric cracked a smile at her statement. It faded away as doe eyes looked directly into his clear ones. The simple look struck hard, making him hang on completely to her next soft words.

"But you're never a freak. You're just a man with a mind that views the world unlike anyone else can." Her smaller hand reached out and held his in a tight grip, smiling. She knew he felt about being touched but felt it was necessary. "Sherlock..hell, you're a gift even and deserve better respect!"

"I don't need others' respect when I have yours and John's!" he blurted then, shocking himself and the young woman across him with such honest admittance. Holmes glanced to the side with a cough, slightly embarrassed.

She blinked, tilting her head to the side. "..Do you really mean that?" His curly head stiffly nodded once. His answer caused her to smile for the first time that evening. "Well..I guess I can live with knowing that for now."

Before neither could say more, a sharp ringing filled their ears. Sherlock sighed, removing his hand from Vallas to grab his phone. The sudden absence left her feeling sad at the lost. Even with gloves on, the warmth from him had seemed to seep through into her better than the coffee she ordered which now sat tepid and forgotten.

"It's Watson." told Holmes' blank voice, bringing her back to reality. "He wanted you to call him once I found you."

"Oh, great." Marisol scrambled up, glumly said she'd be right back, and stepped out into the cold night air. He sat silently as he waited for her to return, trying hard not think about how nice it had been to hold her hand and how much he wished to do it again. After a couple minutes, the writer returned and plopped back down in her chair like she finished running a marathon.

A brow raised curiously. "Everything go all right?"

"Other than me getting an earful, yeah, everything's hunky dory." The corners of the eccentric's mouth twitched upon hearing the American term.

"Good. Now, that you're back to your average self, we need to head to _Barts_ and visit someone I know there."

Dark brown eyes glared. "I'm not average, git."

"Of course not..You're _plain_." he smirked, sending her off into an angry tangent. Though, he never wouldn't admit it aloud, Sherlock was truly glad to have her back to normal.

* * *

**[St. Barts: Cafeteria; 11:22pm]**

" _Ok-ay_ , so who exactly is this mystery person you claim to know?" inquired the writer as the two stepped into the ordinary dining area. There were a small collective of people inside, most of them employees at the hospital. A grimace formed on her face at the sight. The place brought back bitter memories from when her grandmother was on her deathbed. She had made many frequent stops to the cafeteria to refill hers and John's styrofoam cups with shit coffee.

Sherlock didn't noticed her change in demeanor, too busy searching and barely managing to reply. "..An acquaintance."

"You have a lot of those, Holmes." Marisol side-eyed him. All she had heard when he asked the front desk was 'Where's Hooper?' and was simply directed towards the cafeteria. He knew well where he was going as if he visited there often, but it was probably that he just had a mental map to the research hospital like the city she assumed.

The man didn't respond to her snide remark, having found who he was looking for and strutting over. She followed slowly behind to give him some privacy with one of his many acquaintances. They turned out to be a woman with brown hair gather into a low side bun and dressed in drab clothing under her white lab coat. She seemed mousy in appearance but an overall good person from what the younger one picked up.

Molly stared at the food choices in front of her, debating. She'd had a large list of recently deceased that night which she only managed to get half through and it was almost the middle of the night. So, it was only now that she had a chance to get a bite to eat before resuming..if she could hurry and make up her mind.

"What are you thinking? Pork or pasta?" The timid woman jumped, calming once realizing it was Holmes.

"Oh, it's you." she greeted with a shy smile.

He observed in the food with disinterest. "I suppose it's never going to trouble _Egon Ronay_ , is it?" Hopper smiled again, holding back a laugh to not insult anyone.

"I'd stick with the pasta." he suggested, morbidly adding. "Don't want to be doing roast pork, not if you're slicing up cadavers."

"..What are you having?" the woman asked him with genuine curiosity.

"I don't eat when I'm working. Digesting slows me down." An obnoxious snicker interrupted the two upon hearing such a fact. They simultaneously turned towards the source—Marisol. She leaned casually against the condiments table behind them a few steps away, arms crossed. Hooper took her in with wide eyes while Holmes narrowed his.

"And what's so funny that you needed to interrupt?"

"Hmm, nothing big. Just you keep surprising me with your weirdness." came her response with a teasing smirk.

He frowned. "Well, at least I have interesting qualities unlike you, _plain girl_."

She flipped him off. "Oh, piss off, _git_." Molly glanced at the detective nervously, expecting him to say something even more cruel to the girl. But to her surprise, he smiled—a genuine one with teeth showing naturally. She'd never witness him doing so, much less received. It made her curious of who this younger woman was and her relationship with Holmes. Said person returned to their usual apathetic demeanor before addressing the specialist registrar.

"Molly, this is Marisol Vallas, a friend of mine."

" _He considers her a friend?"_ she thought in shock while saying aloud kindly, "Molly Hooper, nice to meet you." She offered a hand then which was politely returned.

"Nice to meet you too." Now, that the writer was closer, Molly noticed her face was covered in fresh scratches and thin bandages. She also couldn't help spying the oversized purple shirt under her beige coat—Sherlock's. She had seen him wear multiple times since first meeting, but pushed that fact to the back of her mind as the medical examiner in her took over.

"Are you all right?"

"Hm? Yes, I'm—oh! This," Vallas pointed to her injured face and gave a reassuring grin, "Just a part of the job description. I had a row with a Chinese assassin earlier today." The older woman was a little taken back by how causal she said that; as if she was simply discussing the weather. Plus, this decent girl didn't appear the sort to fight against bad people. Then again, no one assumed _Peter Parker_ to be _Spiderman_ unless shown..

Molly nodded, continuing her conversation with the eccentric. "So..you're working here tonight?"

"Need to examine some bodies." he told vaguely.

"Some?" she repeated.

"Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis."

Chocolate brown eyes glanced down at the chart in her hands, amazed. "They're on my list."

"Could you wheel them out again for me?" Sherlock pleaded, giving a bit of a puppy dog look in hopes to win her over. But unfortunately, she didn't bite..yet.

"Well.." Hooper stammered, "Their paperwork's already gone through." He tsked softly before appearing to notice something about her then. Meanwhile, Marisol quietly watched the two interact knowingly.

He pointed toward her head, stating out of the blue. "You changed your hair."

"What?" his acquaintance blinked, off-guard.

"The style. It's usually parted in the middle."

"Yes, well—"

"It's good." the clever man reassured, adding a soft smile to sugary-coat it. "It, um..suits you better this way."

His words made the woman become so happily flustered that she abandoned the idea of food. Instead, they strolled out of the cafeteria and into the hall; Marisol and Sherlock had no real business nor appetite to stay either. She told quickly the two companions she could get the bodies ready in a couple minutes for them. Watching her then scurry away, the writer decided to speak then.

"You are cruel." accused the young woman, narrowing her dark eyes.

Clear blues glanced sideways. "How so?"

"By using that woman's crush on you as leverage, stringing her along in thinking you _like like_ her maybe." she frowned with a disapproving shake of her curly head.

"Well, we need to quickly see those bodies to prove to Dimmock we're right." he brushed off nonchalantly.

"Yes, but you could have just told her that. I'm sure she'd understand."

"That way was faster."

Vallas sighed, annoyed at his lack of remorse. "Still, you wouldn't like having someone toy with you either if you knew. No person would."

"I'm not like everyone, Marisol." her friend bit back.

"Really now?" A brow raised challengingly. Out of nowhere, the lapels of his coat were grabbed and he was spun around until his back connected hard with the plaster wall. An involuntary _'oomph'_ escaped Sherlock from the impact.

"What is wrong—" he began to exclaim when the unthinkable occurred. _Marisol pressed herself against his body._

Words vanished from him as his overactive mind came to a speedy halt; her boldness making his head to go blank for the first time in his whole life. She was a foot shorter than him, younger too, but that didn't stop her from taking control. Her slender hand then snaked itself into his messy curls, gripping them tightly. His eyes unconsciously closed from the strange pleasure it created. He wasn't used to this kind of intimate interaction.

Hand still tangled in dark locks, his head was tilted down which Holmes gave no protest. The writer stood on her tiptoes and brought her face closer. Warm breath caressed his suddenly feverish skin that caused a shiver to run through him. His eyes kept switching their focus between hers and her glossed lips. They were so close..But before that thought could trail further, his mind became befuddled again as he felt her free hand run sensually up his chest, making the man close his eyes again and groan low.

Luckily, for his dignity, no one had decided to roam the halls during the time-halting affair and could discover him slowly falling apart beneath this seemingly normal girl. During all this, the young woman remained calm as ever while performing such uncharacteristic actions. Her teasing, trailing hand soon grasped his chin and dark hooded eyes meet his own. He gulped, transfixed. Full, kissable lips parted then, whispering.

"No matter how different you say you are, when a someone shows just a little bit of interest in you, y _ou easily bend to their every will._ " Smirking slyly, she stepped away and patted his cheek before strolling down the hall the opposite way. The detective stood stock still for a moment and then straighten himself with a hard glare. He had been easily toyed with, proving Marisol's point.

"You don't even know where you're going!" he snapped at her loudly who was already halfway down the hall.

"But I can read! And I'm not completely socially inept to ask directions." she smoothly tossed over her shoulder. "..Or an _arse_." Sherlock fumingly watched her go, swaying her hips in a cocky manner until turning a corner. He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. Baffled, his gaze shifted down only to widen..

* * *

As she said, Vallas managed to find the morgue just fine on her own. She now stood off to the side quietly, trying not to look as Molly laid out the bodies. Looking at them reminded her of Soo Lin and didn't want to crumbling into a sobbing mess again in the middle of a mortuary with a person she hardly knew. The eccentric had yet to arrive but she figured he didn't want to be around her at the moment after what happen. A soft chuckle escaped her upon remembering his reaction. It was amusing and so very honest. It was the first time Marisol witness such a natural human response for the apathetic man.

" _He's not completely closed off."_ came a conclusive thought which was followed by a more blunt one. _"..And I liked teasing him for once.."_

Marisol coughed as a bright blush burned her cheeks from the abrupt thought. She'd been having a lot of those lately..and all were about the enigmatic detective. Suddenly needing a distraction, brown eyes shifted towards the timid woman and blurted the first thing that came to mind.

"So how long have you known Holmes?" The young woman grimaced. So much for moving to another topic..Molly looked her way, seeming surprised by her question but answered none the less.

"Oh, um, two years now. I met him when I first started here." A smile appeared on her face at the memory. "He was in one of the labs working and I went to introduce myself, only to be told to get him a cup of coffee black with two sugars."

Vallas smirked; _how very Sherlock_. "That's some first meeting."

"Well, Sherlock is something else, right?" she chuckled fondly. The other woman nodded. "How long have you known him, if you don't mind me asking the same?"

"No, it's fine. I met him a month ago with my godfather."

Hooper blinked. "Only a month?"

"Uh-huh," a questioning brow raised, "Is that really hard to imagine?"

"Yes, actually. You two act like you've known each other for a long time." She added the next part softly to herself, "Especially, with how he smiled at you."

It was the writer's turn to blink in surprise; having heard. "What—" The entrance to the morgue opened as the man the two had been discussing strolled in with Dimmock close behind. Molly went back to work at their arrival. Marisol's confusion quickly changed to angry upon spying the other man. She didn't try to hide her glare when he made brief eye contact; inwardly smiling with glee when noticing his discomfort.

"Vallas, behave." warned her friend as he passed by. She raised her hands in surrender; signaling she would. He nodded with approval before heading over to his acquaintance.

"We're just interested in the feet."

"The feet?" Hooper repeated, baffled.

"Yes." he smiled gently at her, "Do you mind if we have a look at them?" She complied and proceeded to unzip the end of the black body bag of Brian Lukis. There, plain as day, at the sole of his foot was the faded trademark belonging to the Black Lotus clan.

Holmes smugly smirked. "Now, Van Coon." The same was found on him as well.

"So.." Dimmock drawled. He still quite couldn't believe it was true.

"So either they went to the same Chinese tattoo place," interjected the young woman from the other side of the room. Her voice practically oozed with sarcasm. "Saw the lotus one and thought _'Oh my god, that is just too cute! I have to have that on the heel of my foot for no one to see!'_ " Molly had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Even the corner of Sherlock's mouth couldn't help but quirk up at his friend's words.

"Or I'm telling the true." finished the eccentric in a composed tone.

The Detective Inspector at last caved, wishing to be anywhere but there now. "What do you want?"

"I want every book from Lukis' apartment and Van Coon's."

"Their books?" Marisol's left eye twitched.

"Yes, and an honest apology from yourself to our mistreated Miss Vallas also." he added, glancing to the young woman. She walked over then and stood by her companion, waiting expectantly with a smug smile.

"Fine. _All right._ " he grumbled before saying sincerely, "I'm sorry for what I said and angering you. It was unprofessional of me."

"Thank you. You're forgiven.. _for now._ " she grinned. He stiffly nodded and then left the morgue to fulfill Sherlock's request. The duo wished Molly a good night and thank you's for her assistance before leaving too. They walked in silence out of the hospital and onto the pavement. It was the writer who broke the quiet after awhile as the two walked down the empty sidewalk.

"Um..I appreciate what you did back there. You didn't have to."

Clear blues glanced briefly to the side at her. "..I said I would prove him wrong. It was only right to have him apologize also."

"Still, that alone was enough." She scratched her head, suddenly abashed. "Also, sorry for what I did to you but it was for your own good."

"Hmm." was all the man said to that.

A stern look was given. "But really, I hope you learn a lesson from it to treat people better."

"It didn't." he told bluntly. Turning, he leaned down to her level and peered right into her dark gaze. "Instead, I'll be getting my revenge for that stunt _very soon._ " Holmes continued walking, leaving Marisol standing there. A feeling of unease struck her at his words.

"Oh dear.." she muttered warily, knowing well by now that couldn't be good coming from him. "I figured as much."

* * *

**[221B; 12:20 am]**

By the time the two companions made it back to the loft, it was already after midnight.

"Not just a criminal organization." Holmes stated as they walked into the sitting room.

"Nope, it's more of a cult." finished the writer with a yawn and grimace. "But aren't all crime gangs just one of the sub-level examples of the word?"

The man smirked in approval, "Correct."

John, sitting in his chair drinking a cup of tea, looked up upon hearing their discussion. A relieved smile immediately appeared when he saw his goddaughter, tired but in one piece. She smiled back, dropped her things on the coffee table, and walked over to him. He went to stand and hug her, only to have her sit in his lap and curl up against him like a sleepy child would.

The young woman knew it wasn't very appropriate but didn't care. She was beyond exhausted and wanted nothing but the comfort of her only family. Sherlock quietly raised a curious brow at the sight while Watson just chuckled and patted her head. He was used to her doing as such every so often. It was a childhood habit she continued to do to this day. The last time it happen when Marisol had been study almost nonstop for finals and when finished, she just walked out of her room without a word and did the same thing.

"Her brother was corrupted by one of its leaders." the eccentric continued on, hanging his coat and scarf.

"Soo Lin said the name." the doctor remembered.

"Yes, Shan. General Shan."

John became dejected. "We're still no closer to finding him."

"Wrong! We've got almost all we need to know." the other man pressed, "She gave us most the missing pieces. Why did he need to visit his sister? Why did he need her expertise?"

"She worked at the museum." Marisol responded; a hard edge to her voice. The men clearly knew why as they felt the same. "An expert in antiquities."

"Exactly." nodded the detective.

"Of course, I see." sighed John.

"Valuable antiquities, John. Ancient Chinese relics purchased on the black market. China's home to a thousand treasures hidden after Mao's revolution."

"The Black Lotus is selling them." declared the two family members simultaneously. The trio wasted no more time then and got to work. Sherlock and Marisol both searched various antique auctions sites from their separate laptops.

"Check for the dates.." John told the eccentric as he currently skimmed through the items presented on _Crispian's Auction—Chinese & other Asian Works of Art._

He stopped on a pair of gourd shaped porcelain vases. "Here, John, _'arrived from China four days ago.'_ " They were estimated for between _400,000_ to _500,000_ and were from an anonymous source. "The vendor doesn't give his name." A sardonic smile formed on his lips. " _'Two undiscovered treasures from the East.'_ "

"One in Lukis' suitcase and one in Van Coon's." summed Watson, putting the missing pieces together.

"I've found another one, boys." sang the young woman across them. She perked up some thanks to the coffee Mrs. Hudson made her awhile ago. The beverage was like a shot of heroin for her. Lifting her laptop around, her slender finger pointed to the first picture on the page. "Arrived from China a month ago, a Chinese ceramic statue sold for _400,000._ "

"Look. A month before that," her godfather noted to one below it, "Chinese painting, half a million."

"All of them from anonymous source. They're stealing them back in China and one by one feeding them into Britain."

"Every single auction coincides with Lukis or Van Coon traveling to China."

"Which, again, goes well with my theory," reminded Vallas smugly, loving when she solved a part of the mystery beforehand. "That one of them got greedy and stashed a piece away from somewhere."

"And that's why Zhi Zhu's come." John finished, understanding. A knock startled the three out of their thinking circle to discover Mrs. Hudson standing in the doorway.

"Sorry." she apologized before asking curiously, "Are we collecting for charity, Sherlock?"

The old woman was given a perplexed expression. "What?"

"A young man's outside with crates of books." The writer and detective glanced at each other then, saying passionless.

" _Oh, right._ "

* * *

Next thing they knew, the three were almost completely surrounded by several crates of books from the murdered victims in the small room. Marisol sat at the table and glared at every box brought in with pure hatred. She just wanted to go to sleep but Holmes was acting like a dictator, saying that 'with the three of them, they could get through them quicker.' Though, the young woman knew better. This was secretly his promised revenge and if he thought she was gonna cave, he had another damn thing coming.

"..I'm gonna need more coffee to deal with this crap." Vallas grumbled, running a hand down her face before leaving to head downstairs for the pot Mrs. Hudson already made. John shook his head at her. He told her she could go to bed in his room no matter what Sherlock said but she refused while narrowing her brown eyes at said person. Turning back towards his flatmate, he noticed right away the smirk the detective tried to hide.

"You two have a bet or something going on?"

"What?" said the eccentric, acting like he didn't what Watson was asking. "No. Vallas is just determined to solve this case as much as us."

The older man crossed his arms sternly. "That smirk of yours tells otherwise."

He just grinned in a cryptic way. "I have no idea what you're implying. Anyway, the numbers are references."

"To books." Watson figured with a dull tone.

"To specific pages and specific words on those pages." Holmes clarified.

"Right, so..fifteen and one, that mean?"

"Turn to page fifteen and it's the first word you read."

"Okay, so what's the message?"

"Depends on the book." answered Sherlock, "That's the cunning of the book code. It has to be one that they both own."

"Okay, fine. This shouldn't take too long, should it?" the doctor remarked, a tad doubtful. The two went to work, both pulling out books separately from one side of the piles. They weren't even a minute in when Dimmock decided to pop in and interrupt.

"We found these—" The picture taken at the train yard, now placed in a clear evidence bag, was shown. "At the museum. Is this your writing?" It was suddenly snatched from behind, startling him. He spun around and came face to face with none other than Marisol. She just stared innocently into his eyes while taking a sip from her mug. He glared at her, but the writer just gave a slight pleased smirk.

John took the photo from her, rolling his blue eyes. "We hoped Soo Lin could decipher it for us."

He nodded in understanding before addressing Holmes. "Anything else I can do? To assist you, I mean."

"Some silence right now would be marvelous." the other man told rudely, too absorbed in his task. The Detective Inspector glanced at John who just shook his head; even making eye contact with the person who made him irritated.

She waved him off with a lazy hand; now seated across Watson again. "Get some rest, Dimmock. You've done enough, thank you." With a tight jaw, he listened and left the investigating trio to a long night of decoding.

**-TBC-**


	14. (NOT) A Double Date

**[221B: John and Sherlock's Flat; 8:00am on March 26th]**

About eight hours had passed and the trio was still nowhere closer to the answer after going through more than half of the books. The only thing they all had was another night of no sleep. Well, Sherlock and John did. Sometime during the night, Marisol ended up crashing on the sofa in the middle of working and been there since; curled up on her side and snoring lightly.

Completely immerse their work, the men didn't even noticed the time yet alone the sunlight that now brighten the room. It took the alarm from the doctor's wristwatch to bring them back to the present. He groaned once remembering—it was his second day at his new job. He stood then and walked towards the sofa. Pausing, blue eyes glanced over when spying the movement and watched as the older man gave his goddaughter a soft kiss to her forehead. Her face scrunched up cutely from the action before relaxing. John chuckled at the sight, used to her doing so.

Watson tossed a 'good luck' the eccentric's way, receiving a short nod as he left to get ready. And the crowded sitting room once again fell in silence. Several minutes passed like that—Holmes flipping through page after page and Vallas deep in her dream world until..

A scream of anguish came from the other side of the room. Sherlock startled as the sound shook him to his very core. He acted fast, pushing through the stacks of crates and knocking some down before he stood a few steps away from the source. Marisol sat in the fetal position with her hands buried in her sleep-tangled hair and rocked back and forth, muttering incoherently.

The genius hurried to her side. "Marisol—" She quickly turned at the sound of his voice and upon seeing it was him, wrapped her arms around his waist. He froze in surprise, a wave of deja vu hitting him. She buried her face in his stomach, sobbing.

"You're alive..you're alive.." she repeated in a hysterical mantra.

A curious but nervous brow raised in question. "And why wouldn't I be?"

"I dreamed you were dead..you and John. You both were killed along with Soo Lin and I.." The frighten young woman cried hard, clutching onto his shirt tighter. " _I couldn't save you like last time!_ " His eyes widen. She was experiencing a symptom of trauma as a result from witnessing the former smuggler's death. He knew well that had been her first time seeing someone she knew dead but for it to affect her to the point of nightmares..The mere thought caused his heart to clench, hating that his only friend was hurting. His hands came to gently rest on her trembling shoulders, going to speak but was interrupted.

"Is everything all right, Sherlock?" Holmes glanced back to find a frantic Mrs. Hudson in the doorway. "I heard a horrible scream—" She then noticed the writer clinging to him. "Oh no, was it Marisol?"

He swallowed; his mouth suddenly dry. "Yes, she had a vivid nightmare.."

"Poor dear! I'll go make her a soothing cuppa!" The old woman left as fast as she came, leaving the two alone again.

The eccentric carefully removing himself from Vallas and instead uncomfortably sat on the coffee table across her. She had brought her knees to her chest while they sat in silence, still crying but also slowly calming down. It didn't take long for the landlady to return with her promised drink. She had an amazing talent at that. He took the cup and thanked her before she left again. The steaming tea was placed on the table instead of given to Marisol. Judging by the slight tremor in her slender hands, he concluded holding it would mostly likely end in spilled tea and broken glass.

Troubled, the man observed her. She still appeared exhausted; her pretty face paler than normal and sweaty, her body was twitchy as well. With her current state going back to sleep would prove difficult without some assistance and it is what she desperately needed. His gaze then drifted towards the window where his precious violin sat waiting ever patient in its case. Rising to his feet, he strolled over and gently removed the instrument.

"What are you doing?" came a curious but quiet question from behind him.

"You'll see.." he answered vaguely, "Just lay down and close your eyes."

"Sherlock, I don't—"

" _Try._ " the man pressed. Vallas tiredly huffed, obeying. A triumphant smirk formed on his lip as he got into the proper position, having been ingrained into him from a young age. The violin tucked under his chin like a kitten seeking warmth. Bow and fingers caressed the taunt strings softly like a new lover. And clear blue eyes drifted close as he began playing instinctively a certain piece— _Violin Sonata No. 6 by Niccoló Paganini._ It was one of his personal favorites by the composer. So he allowed the music flow through him, putting his own unique flare to it.

The beautiful sound filled the flat and out towards the stairs where John, freshly showered and dressed, now stood, listening. Mrs. Hudson had informed him quickly what happen to his goddaughter outside the bathroom door. Clothing himself in a rush, he went to check on her, only to pause when hearing his flatmate play. It wasn't the first time he had since moving in but it still made him stop and appreciate the lovely sound produced. So, the doctor stayed by the open door until the final note fading into the air. He poked his head inside then, ready to speak but the words fell short at the sight in front of him.

Sherlock hovered over the once again slumbering writer; his vintage violin still grasped in one hand. While the other had reached down and lightly brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. Though the action wasn't common of the enigmatic man to show..it was the sympathetic, fond expression that grace his usual impassive face that shocked Watson. Feeling as if he was intruding on a private moment, he turned and quickly exited the place, unsure of the meaning to what he truly witness.

* * *

**[Local Clinic; 1:14pm]**

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," the receptionist apologized for what left like the hundredth time the past hour. "But we haven't got anything now until next Thursday." Dr. Sawyer happened to walk by then, seeing the small group in front of the desk. Curious, she addressed the flustered woman that sat there.

"Um..what's going on?"

"That new doctor you hired," she informed, speaking of John. "He hasn't buzzed the intercom for ages."

"Let me go and have a word." Sarah told before headed to the office assigned to him. She gave a gentle knock to the door, calling out to him. No response came. Slightly concern, the General Practitioner stepped inside and discovered the man sitting up, fast asleep.

It was a little past closing time when John finished all his patients and paper work. He prepared to leave but stopped by the receptionist desk once spying Sarah there.

"Looks like I'm done." he stated, shrugging on his jacket. "I thought I had some more to see."

"Oh, I did one or two of yours." she informed nonchalantly.

He gave a confused expression. "One or two?" There had seemed to be more in the waiting from the brief glimpse he caught when saying goodbye to one of his patients earlier. Thinking his sleep-deprived was playing tricks, Sawyer reassured him.

"Well, maybe five or six."

"I'm sorry," the doctor sighed, ashamed. "That's not very professional."

The woman agreed, not helping. "No, not really."

"I had..a bit of a late one."

Sarah stared before seeming to realize what he meant. "Oh, right."

"Anyway, see you." He moved to leave when she quickly spoke again.

"So..um, what were you doing to keep you up so late?" she wondered. John turned back with a surprised expression.

"I was attending a sort of book event." he lied smoothly. There was no way he could tell her about the smuggling case for obvious reasons, so a half-truth was the best he could give.

"Oh." Sarah nodded, "Oh, she likes books, does she, your girlfriend?"

"No, it wasn't a date." corrected Watson, understanding her sudden curiosity now. She thought his lack of sleep was due to him being intimate with someone. Boy, did he wished that were true.

"Good. I mean, I'm.." Sawyer stammered in embarrassment.

It brought a smile to his face, pushing him to take a brave chance. "And I don't have one tonight."

* * *

 **[221B;** **3:27pm]**

A leather-bounded book was unceremoniously tossed into a crate from frustration. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and ruffled his hair; his usual habit whenever feeling chafe. At last looking through every book owned by the victims, he chose a few from his own collection—an Oxford dictionary, the Christian and Catholic Holy Bibles—that could be commonly found in someone's possession. But once again came across words that held no meaning together. It left him currently at a stalemate..and he absolutely loathed it.

"You look like you have to poo." Blue eyes snapped open. There, leaning with arms behind her back against the door frame, stood a simpering Marisol; now cleaned and somewhat rested. After falling back to sleep, she slept for a couple more hours under his watchful gaze before her phone startled her awake. She glanced at the screen and whatever was on there caused her to spring to her feet and out the door. He didn't stop her then, once again too engulfed in his search.

No longer in his borrowed purple shirt and her burgundy trousers, she replaced it instead for a batwing short sleeve dress. The top part was beige colored and billowy while the skirt was floral printed, falling a bit pass her knees. A strip of ribbon tied in a nice bow cinched the piece perfectly to her waist. Her skinny legs were covered in tights that gave the illusion that she wore knee-high stockings. The genius noticed a moment later when she shifted some, a cute cartoon face of cat were on them. Suede lace-up boots and wool Panama hat finished ensemble with rose-gold accessories.

" _It fits her personality extremely well."_ he noted with a smirk. _"Girly and quirky but overall cute."_ But he also found it be more than she usually wore when around him and John. He pondered for a moment as to why.

— _I guess I should thank you, Sherlock, because I got a date Friday out of your surprise visit._

His lazy smile changed to a bitter frown upon recalling. So that exampled her rushed exit earlier as well. The thought that she still went through with it after her rough morning filled him with annoyance and another strange feeling.

His frown deepen. _"Wonderful. More of_ _ **those**_ _."_

Lost in his head, Holmes returned to the present when hearing a throat clear. Vallas had moved from her spot by the door to stand in front of him now. A clear grocery bag was offered to him and he could see his dress shirt inside.

"Ah. Thank you, Vallas." he said, taking it from her. The action caused their fingers to brush lightly. The remembrance of those slender ones carding through his hair struck him suddenly..along with _the aftermath_. He quickly turned his gaze away from the writer, tossing the bag in the corner behind him. Why was it only since meeting her that all these unneeded feelings chose to arise? What made her so average but different all at once? And had him wanting to—

"Had fun on your date?" he asked blankly, pushing ill thoughts aside.

Brown eyes blinked before turning bashful. "Uh, I did. It being a coffee date helped a lot too."

He raised a brow. "How so?"

"I wouldn't know how to act if it was a dinner one or something romantic like first thing. So it being over coffee was easy, felt like a normal one with a friend." She smiled, reminiscing. "And Adam was very sweet as I expected." Sherlock rolled his eyes, ignoring the tightness in his chest.

"Oh, yeah! I forgot to give this to you the other day." she exclaimed abruptly, digging into the hidden pocket in her skirt. The ripped piece of the poster she discovered was shown. "I found it when we searched the train yard." Her companion took it, careful not to touch her again, and skimmed it.

"A Chinese circus for one night only.."

"Too much of a coincidence, right? We should go check it out." the young woman grinned, hinting. "Make a night of it."

He grinned back. "Yes, we should." Just then, John arrived and joined them in the crowded room. He looked at the two standing across from each other grinning and smiled warily, once again feeling as if he intruded.

"I'm back. Feeling better, Mari?"

She nodded, knowing what her godfather meant. "Yeah, good as new."

"That's relief." he sighed, no longer fully concerned.

"I need to get some air." Holmes randomly announced, "We're going out tonight."

"Actually, I've got a date." his flatmate informed the two.

"What?" the writer and eccentric said together. He stared at Watson with confusion while she appeared as if he had offended her somehow.

"Where two people who like each other go out and have fun?"

"That's what I was suggesting." told the other man.

"No, it wasn't. At least, I hope not."

"And where, if I may ask, are you taking this mysterious woman?" his goddaughter queried in a dead tone. But underneath the indifferent attitude, ire was beginning to boil like water in a tea kettle. She didn't like the idea of her godfather meeting some woman she had yet to meet herself.

"Er, cinema." he answered, raising a brow when she crossed her arms and fixed him with a hard stare.

The eccentric walked around her then, coming towards John. "Dull, boring, predictable.." He handed over the ripped poster. "Why don't you try this? In London for one night only."

John laughed lightly. "Thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice."

"Actually, I think you should go, John. It's something very different than the normal dating spiel." Marisol offered with an encouraging smile. "Definitely will get you some major points from your new lady friend, if you know what I mean."

"And when you call in, put it under my name. I'll pay for it." Holmes stated casually after her. Watson stared between them for a moment, a tad suspicious by their equal support. But he soon complied and headed into the small kitchen to make the call. While he talked on the phone, Vallas went and stood beside her tall friend, whispering.

"You're gonna call back once he's done, right?"

A mischievous smirk was given. "Why, yes, of course."

"Good." she nodded once, "..And make sure it's four instead of two."

* * *

 **[Yellow Dragon Circus: Chinese Theatre;** **7:41pm]**

"It's years since anyone took me to the circus." Sarah told in a bright excited tone as she and Watson walked to the nightly event.

"Right, yes." John laughed nervously, "A friend—well, _friends_ recommended it to me and I phoned up." He briefly remembered said people eagerly pushing him into doing so. It was still odd several hours later to him, but pushed it out of his mind and focused on his lovely date instead.

"Oh! What are they, a touring company or something?" she pondered.

"I don't know much about it." he honestly told her, mentally berating himself for not asking more about it. They arrived in front of an old building where others coming to see the circus loiter around. Beautiful red orange paper lantern were strung about over the entrance; a hint for what was happening there.

The woman leaned over, smirking. "I think they're probably from China."

"I think so, yes. There's a coincidence.." the doctor agreed, suddenly wary and cursing himself even more for going along again. The budding couple headed inside and towards the ticket booth which appeared to be a former coat check area.

"Hi, I have two tickets reserved for tonight." he said to the young man there.

"And what's the name?"

"Holmes."He peered to the side where the reserved ones were. Once finding the name, he turned back and held more than what was told.

"Actually, I have four in that name."

A confused look crossed the other man's face. "No, I don't think so. We only booked two."

"Then I phoned back and got one for Marisol and myself as well." came a familiar voice out of the blue. The couple glanced back to find Sherlock and Marisol standing there as if the cunning duo had been waiting in the shadows all along..which they probably did now that John thought about it. His earlier suspicion was justified upon seeing them—the circus was involved with the case. _Oh, joy._

"I'm Sherlock." the eccentric introduced, shaking hands with Sarah.

"Uh, hi." she greeted, nodding to the young woman who waved with a bright smile.

"Hello." he returned the greeting.

Marisol next to take her hand. "I'm Marisol, John's goddaughter. It's very nice to meet you and thanks for allowing him to work with you."

"It's no problem at all. _We're_ lucky to have him with us." said Sawyer politely. She then peered at her and the taller man, asking suddenly. "Have you two been dating long?" The writer and detective blinked, off-guard. They glanced at each other before refusing her question in a perturbed fashion.

Vallas shook her head with a scoff. "Us, dating? Yeah, _no._ "

"We're just friends." came Holmes' blank rebuttal, "And she isn't someone I would go for, to be honest."

"Not who you—" his friend repeated before saying angrily. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, git?!"

"Exactly what it meant, Vallas."

"Keep it up and I'll spill our _little secret._ " she mumbled low with a sly smirk. Blue eyes glared daggers down at her, making the smirk turn into a full-blown grin. John rolled his eyes in annoyance while his date chuckled softly behind her hand. The two excused themselves then, still quietly bickering. Once gone, John took the tickets from the patient man and paid before facing his co-worker.

"I am so sorry about all that." Watson sighed his apology.

"No, it's fine. I don't mind having a double date, makes me think of times in secondary school." she told with a reassuring voice, peering in the direction the others left. "Your goddaughter seems very close to that man."

He glanced that way as well, brows furrowed. "Yeah..it worries me most times."

"As any family member rightfully should." Sarah smiled, "Oh, I'm gonna see if there's a restroom before it starts. Be back in a bit."

"Sure thing, I'll be on the stairs waiting." her date said, watching her go with a smile. It disappeared as she turned away and he headed towards the spot he mentioned. And once again, the man wasn't surprised to see his companions lounging on the staircase; the two not caring if they were in the way as people attending walked by.

"You couldn't let me have just one night off." he hissed angrily to the detective before directing his anger towards the young woman as well. "And you didn't try to stop him, did you?"

Brown eyes rolled. "Well, that's because I wanted to meet and assess your date. See if she's worth your time."

"Cock blocking is what you really mean, and yes, I understand the term." John added when seeing her astonished look at his colorful choice of wording. "Also, that is not for you to decided, Mari. It's my love life, stay out of it."

"Nothing of your family squabbling, please." Sherlock sighed. The family members glowered heatedly at him but stayed silent. "Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one day. It fits. The Tong sent an assassin to England—"

"Dressed as a tightrope walker." finished his peeved flatmate, "Come on, Sherlock, behave!"

But he kept going; blinded by the case. "We're looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope. Where else would you find that level of dexterity? Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country."

"All I need to do is have a quick look around the place—"

John interrupted, "Fine. You and Mari do that, I'm gonna take Sarah for a pint."

"I need your help." stressed the eccentric.

"I do have a couple of other things on my mind this evening." he was told by the man who was becoming more exasperated by the second.

"Like what?" Holmes queried with ire.

"..You are kidding?" Watson stared in disbelief that the other man couldn't get his not-so-subtle plan for the evening. Even Vallas got right away; noted by the deep grimace she wore then.

"What's so important?"

"Sherlock, I'm in the middle of a date. You want me to chase some killer while I'm trying to.."

"What?!" he pressed, still not getting it.

"My god, you are shockingly dense," the writer groaned loudly, face palming. "Or completely inept to any interaction with either sex to not get what he means. He's trying to—"

"Get off with Sarah." they said simultaneously..just as said person returned and joined the trio on the stairs. She looked at her date, smiling and having either not heard or didn't care.

"Hey..ready?" the doctor tensely asked her while the other two gave annoyed expressions before walking away again.

* * *

The Yellow Dragon Circus wasn't the usual well-known performance. There was no three-rings stage or wild animals for the small space and atmosphere in the old theatre wouldn't allow such extravagance. People instead stood around a large circle framed by lit candles in the center of the concert hall. The group stood close together at the area as they waited for the event to begin. Marisol couldn't help but gaze around with an appreciated eye. She had to admit the whole thing was kinda her aesthetic. She'd go and see something like this whether or not the performers were mostly likely trained assassins.

"You said circus. This is not a circus." John whispered to Holmes who was currently peering around taking everything in. "Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is..art."

"Sarah seems to like it so far, so stop complaining." noted the young woman in a hushed tone. "Remember, brownie points are key _if you plan to get off._ " She sung the last bit quietly, smirking teasingly. Her godfather fixed her with a hard stare which she purposely disregarded.

"This is not their day job." remained Sherlock then.

"Sorry, I forgot. They're not a circus," the other man muttered back, sarcastic. "They're a gang of international smugglers." A rhythmic drum caught the patrons' attention as an older Chinese woman entered the circle. Her face heavily painted with shades of white and pink that matched with her clothing. An ornamented _Cheongsam_ designed to resemble the style of dress during the _Guangxu Period._ The ensemble was completed with an elegant bejeweled headdress, leaving her graceful and fearsome looking all together.

Coming to a stop in the middle, she raised her arm to stop the drum—only to be replaced by a louder, heavier beat—and stepped towards a covered object beside her. It was revealed to be giant crossbow-like mechanism. The circus matron then delicately placed a large arrow into it before dropping a feather into the bowl behind the contraption. The arrow released so fast, no one saw but only heard as it struck the target on the other side.

" _Assassins sure do love tempting death."_ the writer thought bitterly as a masked man joined the matron and was chained to the target board.

"Classic Chinese escapology act." stated softly the detective to the others, "The crossbow's on a delicate string. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires. With the previous demonstration repeated, a new element was added.

"She splits the sandbag, the sand pours out. Gradually, the weight lowers into the bowl." he finished with suspense. While John and Sarah were distracted, he grabbed Marisol's hand and pulled her away from the dangerous scene to investigate. She didn't even protest, though clearly interested in the show too. It was almost instinctual now for Holmes to bring her along _._ If he took a moment and thought about it, he really couldn't imagine her not tailing behind him like a puppy dog, eager for adventure.

" _I wonder what dog she'd be similar too."_ he pondered randomly, glancing over at her. She met his gaze and adorably canted her head a bit. _"..Yorkshire Terrier..yes, that is far too perfect!"_ The man stifled a laugh as the two soon came upon the unoccupied backstage.

"So, what are we looking for actually?" was whispered from her as the two peered around the dark changing area.

"Anything suspicious or pertaining to the case obviously."

"Tone down the sass there.. _Sherly._ " Said person paused, staring at her as she smirked slyly.

"What? Don't like the new nickname?" His mouth opened to reply when suddenly the music changed from behind the curtain. Curious, he tugged her along and pulled back the heavy drapery some, peeking out. A new act was being done then involving a masked acrobat who was performing an aerial technique with silk.

"Well, well." uttered the detective to himself. As the duo continued to watch, the young woman felt a soft brush across her knuckles and glanced down; brown eyes widening. _They were still holding hands._

The sight instantly reminded her of her date earlier—

_She and Adam, done with their coffee, stood outside in front of the cafe. It was cold that day and in her rush getting ready, had forgotten her gloves. She cupped her hands to her face and exhaled, warming them with her breath._

" _Here." Adam said before grasping one of her hands in his. "That should help warm it."_

_Vallas smirked slightly at him and waved her free one. "I hate to be the barer of bad news, but this one is still left out in the cold."_

" _Oh, right." he laughed, embarrassed. "..Okay, that was my weak excuse to hold your hand."_

" _You didn't need to come up with an excuse." she gently told, timid. "I would have let you if you asked." Staring at each other for a moment, they glanced away with similar flushed cheeks and lopsided smiles._

At the time, holding Adam's made her feel giddy and bubbly but her hands had still been cold afterwards. With the eccentric's, a constant warmth always seemed to emit from his touch, making lightly tan cheek blush pink each chance.

— _Have you two been dating look?_

Sarah's naive question popped in her head all of a sudden.

" _Do we really look that compatible?"_ she genuinely wondered; her hesitant dark eyes drifted up towards Sherlock, only to have her breath stop short.

In the stage lighting, the enigmatic man's handsome profile was lit with shadows cascaded perfectly over his sharp features. His expression, calm and collected as ever, but those clear blue eyes held a blazing fire she had seen several times before. Now, the sight of them caused a different heat to form deep within her. Shocked by the abrupt feeling, she went to remove her hand but his gloved fingers interlocked between hers instead.

"Hey, l-let go, Sherlock." Vallas said breathlessly, hating how she sounded.

He dropped the curtain, turning those blazing eyes on her. "I'd rather not."

She froze. "..Why?"

Bright blues met darker ones, making her almost weak in the knees. "Because we're in the lion's den and I don't need you wandering off, getting hurt again."

"I only got hurt because you went looking for trouble just like now." Marisol deadpanned, "And I saved your arse, thank you very much, just like last—" She pressed her lips in a thin line, realizing her slip up and hoping he wouldn't notice. But he always did.

"Just like last what, Marisol?" he asked, gaze piercing now.

"Nothing!"

" _Liar._ You're biting your lip nervously," The enigmatic man leaned down closer; his voice now drawling and husky. It was as if he knew what was strangely happening to his companion and took sweet pleasure from it. As the while, it made her think back to the time her made her open up. She had been enraptured then just like now. "Breath hitched a tad, and becoming increasingly tense the more I press."

The writer hissed, "Stop reading me! I said it was nothing, so drop it!"

Their argument came to a halt as door opened on the other side of the room. Not wasting another second, Holmes hid themselves behind a clothing rack just before the circus matron appeared. The two, crouched close together to fit, silently watched as she went over to the makeup table and checked something on a cell phone.

Vallas shifted uncomfortably in her slouched position, causing her elbow to smack against one of the coat hangers which rattled loudly. Startled, the woman glanced over but saw no one as the annoyed detective pulled her down lower beforehand. Her narrowed eyes stared suspiciously for a few more seconds until brushing it off as nothing and leaving.

The two happily sighed in relief before glancing at each other; both stopping short. The young woman's warm breath was fanning over Sherlock as she stared with those big doe eyes. Memories of _the incident_ and back at his flat after playing for her flooded his mind then, filling him with the same thought at both those times—

_He wanted to kiss her._

**Deeply and passionately.**

But he didn't act on the uncharacteristic thought because Marisol broke their heated gaze to peer down nervously. The bashful expression didn't last long on her face though. She reached down and brought up a _Michigan_ propellant between them.

"Um, I think we've might of stumbled upon a _very_ important clue."

Sherlock took it, closely observing the object. "..Found you." he sung low before moving quickly from their hiding spot to the makeup table. Shaking the can, he sprayed a single yellow line—similar to the ones the assassin used. The writer poked her head over the rack and was about to cheer in glee when a costume near her rustled some. Canting her head curiously, she took a single step closer. And that's when, for the third time that week, all hell broke loose on the investigating trio.

_**"One kiss breaches the distance between friendship and love." -Unknown** _

**-TBC-**


	15. From A to Z

**[Yellow Dragon Circus: Backstage Area;** **8:11pm]**

A chaotic blur was what the writer would later dub the next few minutes. She hadn't even been able to take another step before the red masked costume reached for her. A surprised shriek escaped her as she quickly jumped out of the way, colliding into a clothing rack and taking it down with her. The sudden commotion drew Holmes' attention from the mirror towards Marisol who cringed in slight pain on the floor.

He sighed with contempt. "Why are you constantly finding a way to hurt yourself?"

She quickly met his gaze, frighten. "I'm not doing it on purpose, you git! Listen, I think there's—"

In their moment of distraction, the hidden Tong assassin used it as an advantage and attacked fast with a sword. The eccentric barely managed to dodge the first swing but by the second, his trained reflexes for sword fighting easily kicked in; reminding him briefly of his previous fight with the bloke about the Jaria Diamond. The young woman scrambled out of the way as one swipe from the masked man's blade came too close to her during the scuffle.

She then could only watch her friend dodge and block with the help of the spray can he still held. Seeing the _Michigan_ propellant gave her a brilliant, or incredibly stupid, idea then. Grabbing one from the black bag where she found them, Marisol reared her right arm back like a major league pitcher before sending a can sailing right at the attacker's head. Though it didn't harm him, it caused him to fumble a tad and drop his weapon.

Receiving an opening, Sherlock sprayed his assailant in the eyes and punched him in the stomach before shoving him down. Vallas hurried in front of the detective then.

"All right, time for us to pop off!" she shouted, grabbing his hand to make a quick getaway.

Unfortunately, she didn't see the masked man flip back onto his feet but Holmes had. He knew she wouldn't stay a chance receiving any of the blows he witnessed. And he didn't want her getting hurt once again because of him; the image of her bruised back flashing across his mind's eye solidified his resolve. Reacting just in time, the detective pushed her to the side before a roundhouse kick to the chest sent him flying backwards through the curtain. The impact to the wooden floor below and kick made the breath out knock of his lungs and double over in pain.

With Sherlock out of the way, the assassin turned towards the writer as she picked herself off the floor again. He looked away to retrieve his sword from where it lay, believing she'd been an easy target to end first. As his gaze moved back to where she was, he got the surprise of his life. A smaller body barreled into his back hard with an angry yell, catching him off-guard. Latching onto him, Marisol pivoted themselves so suddenly that they fell offstage and into the performance area a few feet from her companion.

Sherlock's fall had caught a few close by attendees' attention. Some were moving to check on the man when they came falling after, jumping back in surprise. The young woman, having landed halfway on top of the masked man, took some of the impact, quickly rolling off and searching the circled crowd for her godfather.

"John!" she gasped out loud enough for him to heard. At the sound of his name, he turned from the still performing acrobat and found her immediately. The trained killer too, who shockingly recovered and seemed completely unaffected unlike she was; fueled by his flaring rage for the foolhardy girl. He sped over to help then, alerting the other unsuspecting attendees. Spying the scene and armed person had them flee in all different directions similar to chickens with their heads cut off.

The doctor tackled the attacker out of the way just as he went to stab his incapacitated goddaughter. They struggled for a moment until Watson was kicked in his stomach. It was Sarah who saved the day, appearing at the downed genius and woman's side with the huge crossbow's arrow in hand. She struck the assassin three time before he was at last knocked unconscious. The still recovering eccentric sat up, removing the man's shoe to reveal the infamous Tong tattoo. He'd been right—the circus was a cover up. Someone touched his arm then. It was Marisol, anxious worry all over her pretty face. Other than that, she seemed fine much to his silent relief.

"You all right?"

"I should ask you the same." he told softly before hurrying to join John and his date with her to leave. "Come on. Let's go!"

* * *

**[New Scotland Yard; 8:50pm]**

"I sent a couple of cars. The old hall is totally deserted." As if it were sudden a second home, the investigating trio—plus a tag-along Sarah—found themselves once again among the constant bustle of the Scotland Yard and the unconvincing Dimmock in under twenty-four hours.

"Look, I saw the mark at the circus." Holmes informed confidently, "The tattoo that we saw on the two bodies, the mark of the Tong."

John added as well, "Lukis and Van Coon were part of a smuggling operation. Now, one of them stole something in China. Something valuable."

"And the circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back." finished Marisol in a tired tone, wanting nothing more than this case to be finally over. She didn't know how much more her body could take—mentally and physically.

"Get what back?" the Detective Inspector inquired then. The companion were silent for a moment until Watson answered.

"..We don't know."

"You don't know?" repeated the other man in disbelief before taking a seat behind his desk. "Mr. Holmes, I've done everything you asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something. I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have something to show for it, other than a massive bill for overtime." Again, neither of them were able to give him a solid reassurance.

* * *

**[221B; 9:09pm]**

After all but kicked out of the Scotland Yard, the foursome returned to the loft so the men and young woman could reevaluate their small listing of growing facts.

"They'll be back in China by tomorrow." noted John in a dejected but tired tone behind Sherlock.

"No," reassured his flatmate, removing his winter outerwear. Clear blues locked on his spider web as his vast mind worked. "They won't leave without what they came for. We need to find a hideout— _a rendezvous._ " Squeezing pass the crates, Vallas flopped down across John's arm chair then, wiping her face in fatigued frustration.

"Ughh..we just keep sticking one foot in and then one foot out like the Hokey Pokey with this godawful case!" The corner of Holmes' mouth quirked at her childish comparison. He would have referred it to a dance instead—a very dangerous but enticing _Tango_.

"..Somewhere in this message it must tell us." he pointed to allusive yellow cryptography they were still nowhere to figuring out. The trio knew well that it was the key to cracking the whole case right open. Why dead end after dead end, it came looming back like a specter that needed peace in order to move on into the afterlife. But without the book, they were ever stuck at a stalemate.

Sarah quietly glanced at the spent bunch before speaking, "Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it."

"No, you don't have to go. Stay." Watson told, banishing the thought.

While Holmes said at the same time, "Yes, it'd be better if you left now."

"He's kidding." the other man assured her, "Please stay if you'd like."

"..It it just me or is anyone else starving?" Sawyer remarked as her way to break the tension. Instead, it earned a not-so-subtle 'oh, god' from the detective, making him sound like a teenager who witness his parent saying an embarrassing joke in front of his friends. Marisol stayed silent but rolled her eyes at the present scene, mentally agreeing with her rude companion.

* * *

Dark brown eyes scanned the overhead cupboard for any type of goodies but came up empty handed. The writer sighed unhappily, snapping it shut. She somehow got coaxed into assisting her godfather in finding food for his date..whom currently stood with the busy eccentric while peering at all of their findings with intrigue, remarking that he solved puzzles for a living. Which was corrected by him— _'Consulting detective.'_ were his annoyed choice of words.

With unrefined groan, Marisol leaned against the messy counter and crossed her arms, taking in the state of the men's kitchen. Once this case was over, she'd have to clean up again or hire a cleaner. The thought of a perturbed Sherlock having to deal with a cute little cleaning lady intruding on his territory made a wicked smile form. She proceeded to watch as her only family member flitted around the room in search for some nourishment.

"We're not having much luck here. Might as well give up."

John turned from the open sparse fridge. "No, there's some food around here still. We just need to find it, plus it'd be rude not to."

"Rude or not," she deadpanned loud enough for only him to hear, waving her dismissive fingers towards Sarah in the other room. "I don't see the need to go on a wild hunt just because _she's_ famished." The man rounded on her so suddenly she would have taken a step back if not currently leaning. He had had enough of her and his flatmate's rudeness to the other woman when she didn't ask nor deserve it so far.

"I have had quite enough of your sass, young lady. Sarah is my guest _and date,_ whether you like it or not, I do not care. So, it would be wise of you to be civil before stricter actions are taken." he warned in that stern militant tone only used on former cadets or her when rarely stepping out of line. "Is that understood, _Marisol. Serena. Vallas?_ "

The young woman winced as if he had physically slapped her from across the small distance. Not meeting his eye, she gave a penitent nod of agreement before leaving the kitchen similar to that of a kicked puppy. The sight almost made him go apologize for being so harsh but knew it needed to be said.

Meanwhile Sarah had moved behind the detective, peeking over his shoulder. "What are these squiggles?" Her hand pointed towards the printout of the symbols Sherlock studied. Said person repressed a sigh and urge to swat at her like the irritating gnat he found her to be.

"They're numbers. An ancient Chinese dialect."

"Oh, right." she shrugged, "Well, of course I should have know that."

The writer quietly joined them and sat cross-legged on the floor by Holmes' chair to play around on her phone, not noticing how her sudden closeness caused him to straighten in surprise.

Once calmed, he glanced down to find her scrolling through _Tumblr._

" _Such an idiotic site."_ remarked his disdain, taking in her appearance instead. Her gaze stayed downcast on the screen which caused dark— _and wet?_ —lashes to cast shadows on her flushed tan cheek bones. She was upset, most likely from discussing John's possible relationship with Sawyer and her dislike for it. He sighed softly and tried to go back to work, not wanting to deal with such emotions.

But a soft sniffle had him drift back, seeing her wipe the corner of her damp eye and bite her full bottom lip in that suddenly provocative habit. An image of that latter action and impossible dark eyes peeking seductively through those long natural lashes assaulted his over-working mind..and somewhere _far lower_.

" _Shit."_ He quickly snapped his attention to the many papers in front of him, shifting his long legs awkwardly under the table. They stayed like that for a bit—her curly head resting against his side at some point—until it became too much for the genius that he couldn't concentrate on the task at hand.

"Why are you still on the floor next to me? Sit in the chair like an adult!" he hissed not too kindly. Vallas wasn't even affected by his abrasiveness, unlike with her godfather, and replied none the less.

"I was scolded by John." she answered, pouting like a toddler now. "And I need the close comfort of a friend to feel better..even if they suck at it." Blinking a few times, Sherlock rolled his eyes at her response but didn't pester her again to sit properly.

"So these numbers, it's a cipher?" questioned John's date after a few minutes of silence, evidence-bagged photo of the message. The eccentric gave a disbelieving expression at her touching his things and would have added several unpleasant remarks if not for the pinch to his thigh by Marisol; a reminder to be nice.

"Exactly." he replied with false enthusiasm.

"And each pair of numbers is a word?"The two beside her looked over, shocked.

"How did you know that?" Holmes queried aloud what they thought.

She placed it down for them to see, noting. "Well, two words have already been translated. Here."

"..John." Sherlock called, staring wide-eyed at the words written. Said person hurried into the room then. "John, look at this. Soo Lin at the museum, she started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it." He read the translated words next. " _Nine mill._ "

"Does that mean millions?" Watson pondered.

"Nine million quid." the genius muttered to himself.

"But for what?" the young woman inquired as she stood, curious brown eyes looking up at him. He turned away, heading for his coat where he left it.

"We need to know the end of this sentence."

"Where are you going?"

"To the museum, to the restoration room." the other man was informed, "We must have been staring right at it."

"At what?"

"The book, John! The book. The key to cracking the cipher. Soo Lin used it to do this. Whilst we were running around the gallery," His blue eyes landed on the writer then, saying in a less excited voice. "And with an unconscious Marisol, she started to translate the code. It must be on her desk."

With that said, he left the three staying there still reeling in his fast-paced discovery. Marisol, recovering first, peered over at equally befuddled John and Sarah hesitantly. She didn't want to stay there with them not after her godfather's scolding but also didn't wish to go back to the room that caused her nightmares. Though, at the moment, the latter of the two seemed far more appealing to her unfortunately. So she rushed to the door and picked up her tan satchel there, placing the strap over one shoulder.

"Enjoy the rest of your date." she told the two gently if not sadly, a flash of hurt in her eyes when meeting John's for a moment. "..Call some takeaway from the Chinese place around the corner. Sarah'll like that." She was gone before either could call her back.

* * *

**[221B: Outside on the busy sidewalk; 9:29pm]**

When the young woman stepped out into the still chilly March night air and started to head in direction her scooter was parked, she hadn't expected to see Sherlock running by in front of her like some track star in the Olympics.

"Please, wait!" he shouted to a random couple a few ways down, bewildering her even more when saying something in German next. When the eccentric finally caught up, he rudely snatched a white book from the man.

"Oh, geez." the writer groaned, hurrying after him to stop a possible confrontation. Luckily, the couple angrily walked away before she got there. Her companion didn't even look up when she did, too engrossed in the white book—a _London A-Z,_ to be exact.

Vallas frowned, snatching it from him. "Hey!" Holmes exclaimed and glowered viciously at her.

"I'll give it back once you explain." she told in a blank tone, pressing the book close to her chest. If he tried to grab it, it'll seem like he's groping her for all to see.

"It's the book, the one everyone owns." he informed once realizing with a peeved sigh.

"But a high-functioning sociopath who already knows several languages." the writer interjected teasingly, earning her another fierce glare.

"Yes, and before you so kindly took it from me, I figured out the first cipher back at the bank. _Dead man._ They were indeed threatening to kill Lukis and Van Coon." The young woman blanched and handed the book back so fast someone would think it had burned her.

"Figured as much.." She tugged a nervous hand through her curly locks. "I kinda don't want to see what the other one says."

The photo and a sharpie marker was given to her then. "Unfortunately, we have no choice." In the middle of the sidewalk, the duo began rapidly encrypting the once evasive message—

_**Nine mill for Jade pin.** _

_**Dragon den, black tramway.** _

They stared at the photo after Sherlock read it aloud. At last, they had figured it out and could complete the case. The thought made Vallas squeal in delight, throwing her arms around the detective's neck and planting a quick kiss to his cheek.

"Fucking finally!" she cursed with a cheer once releasing him, dancing like a spaz around him in a circle. The people walking by smiled at the sight and chuckling when glancing at the eccentric.

He stood there frozen and blinking, taking a moment to process what just happen. Marisol had just kissed him. Yes, an innocent one to his cheek; the same way a mother or another relative would. Normally, he'd be offended by such an intrusion to his personal space but not now. A wave of thoughts and emotions flooded his usually spacious mind instead, leaving unresponsive. The writer soon came to a stop in front of him, out of breath but happy.

"Hey," she grinned, waving a hand in his blank face. "Say something, Sherly. Did your hard drive of a brain crash?" Clear blue eyes blinked one last time and shifted towards her, taking in the full smile that lit up her whole beautiful face, brought a playful twinkle to her dark chocolate eyes, and made her seem younger than she already was.

His well-placed control shattered into a million molecules.

His body wasn't his own anymore afterwards. He could only watch his glove covered hands reach out and cup her face on both sides. See her doe eyes grow impossibly big with questions before the black abyss hidden behind his eyelids shut the tantalizing image out, leaving him only to feel with his other senses as Sherlock closed the inevitable distance.

Soft as the pillow he rarely used in his bedroom, warm as Mrs. Hudson's tea in the early morning, and sweet as the Strawberry Shortcake dear Mummy used to make poetically described her lips.

He heard clearly her sharp intake of breath through her nose when they touched and the startled whimper that escapes her brought a sinful shiver down his spine. He wanted nothing more than to brush his tongue along the bottom lip which inadvertently provoked him earlier but held back to not frighten her.

He pulled away after what felt like a century, allowing her to gasp in the night air of London and his oaky scent. His eyes, heavy as lead, drifted open to discover an even more beguiling sight— _her wide eyes had stayed open the entire time._ Still rendered speechless, she silently watched him give a slow, lascivious smirk.

"..Something." he whispered in a husky voice before releasing her and heading back to 221B alone. As Holmes opened the front door, he smugly heard behind him the young woman's voice screech in Greek loudly.

" _WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WAS THAT?!_ "

* * *

Oh, Vallas was on a war path once she regained her bearings.

She stormed up the stairs of 221B a minute later, ready to pummel Sherlock and demand an explanation for whatever that was outside. So when she arrived inside his loft with a few colorful Greek phrases in mind, they died on her tongue as an invisible bucket of ice water seemed to be dump on her.

There, on both windows painted big, was the first cipher— _Dead Man._ She then searched frantically, seeing no one else but the detective and herself in the vandalized room.

"Oh, god..they took them. They have John." the young woman panicked, close to hyperventilating. "No, no, no."

Holmes moved in front of her then, grabbing her arms. "Marisol, calm down. Take in a breath." She listened after a moment, slowly exhaling and inhaling.

"Better?" Marisol gave a weak nod. He raised a brow. "Enough to drive?"

"Drive?" she repeated a bit confused.

"Yes," the eccentric said surprisingly calm, "Because we know exactly where to go."

* * *

**[Dragon Den: Black Tramway; 10:06pm]**

By the time, John came to, he had no recollection of time or what happen beforehand. The only things he knew for sure was the pounding headache and some woman talking wasn't helping it one bit.

"A book is like a magic garden, carried in your pocket." Peering briefly to his left, the doctor found Sarah bound to a chair and gagged. The sight was a slap to the face, bringing him to focus. An older Chinese woman dressed in black stepped away from her two henchmen to stop in front of him.

"Chinese proverb, Mr. Holmes." she said, smiling falsely.

"I'm.." Watson paused in confusion. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes."

"Forgive me if I do not take your word for it." the woman told before reaching into his coat and taking his wallet. She read aloud the contents. "Debit card, name of S Holmes."

"Yes, that's not actually mine. He lent that to me."

"And a check for £5,000 made out in the name of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah, he gave me that to look after."

"Tickets from the theatre collected by you, name of Holmes."

"Yes, okay. I realize what this looks like." John tried desperately to explain, "But I'm not him."

"We heard it from your own mouth." the stubborn woman informed him.

"What?" he said, trying to remember when he said so in the Tong's presence he was.

" _'I am Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone.'_ " she repeated his own words back at him.

" _Because no else can compete with my massive intellect!" he shouted angrily in the Soo Lin's mail slot while Holmes and Marisol were attacked._

He couldn't help but laugh a tad. That he stupidly had say those very words..and that these people couldn't tell his mocking sarcasm for such high-class assassins as they claim to be.

"I suppose there's no use, me trying to persuade you I was doing an impression." A handgun was pointed at his head then, making the man panic and go quiet. During his time in the army, people constantly pointed weapons at his face when in the field..and it was never got easy even now. If John had gotta used to it, he would be incredibly worried with himself.

"I am Shan." the woman introduced herself.

"You're..You're Shan?"

"Three times we tried to kill you and your companions, Mr. Holmes. What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?" The gun cocked and slowly she pulled the trigger in John's face, only for nothing to happen. John didn't even try to breath a sigh of relief.

Shan smirked ominously. "It tells you that they're not really trying." The gun clip was changed with actual rounds before returning to it place in front of Watson.

"Not blank bullets now." she said before continuing, "If we wanted to kill you, Mr. Holmes, we would have done it by now. We just wanted to make you inquisitive. Do you have it?"

"Do I have what?"

"The treasure."

John shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The woman all but sneered at him. "I would prefer to make certain." One of the henchmen standing behind her removed the sheet covering the object the doctor noticed just then, having been too preoccupied with being held at gun point by a psychopath no doubt. The object underneath is almost his worst nightmare come true—the huge crossbow from the performance staring right back at him.

"Everything is the West has its price. And the price for her life—" Shan gestured to poor Sarah. "Information." He had no choice but to watch them pick her up and place her in front of that dangerous mechanism as he quietly apologized for getting the woman involved.

"Where's the hairpin?" Shan bombarded him with questions once again.

"What?"

"The Empress pin valued at 9 million sterling."

" _Ah, so that's what they were indeed after."_ the man thought, a tad glad to know he, Marisol, and Sherlock had been on the right track.

"We already had a buyer in the West and then one of our people was greedy, he took it, brought it back to London, and you, Mr. Holmes, have been searching."

"Please, please. Listen to me." begged Watson, "I'm not Sherlock Holmes. You have to believe me. I haven't found whatever it is you're looking for."

"I need a volunteer from the audience." the leader of the Tongs madly proclaimed, walking towards Sarah. "Ah, thank you, lady. Yes, you'll do very nicely.

"No, please, please!"

* * *

If it weren't for their present dilemma, the young woman might have experienced some deja vu at sharing Daisy with Sherlock again. But her frazzled mind was trying hard to remember the directions he'd given her at the flat. Her hands slightly trembled on the handles as she sped through the busy streets, sticking to the speed limit as best she could.

She had been scared when searching for Holmes on their first case but kept a cool head. Now, Marisol was down-to-the bone terrified at the thought of the only family she had left in the world being killed. Especially with how they left things between them. She couldn't live with herself if those were their last words. She just—

Feeling how tense her body became, Sherlock's hand gave her waist a reassuring squeeze. If she wasn't so hell-bent, the writer might have touched his hand in thanks..or held onto it for dear life. It wasn't long before the pastel yellow Vespa screeched to a halt a few feet from the entrance of NW1 tramway. Marisol hadn't turned off the engine before Sherlock hopped off and stood in front of her, clear blues strikingly serious.

"Vallas, you need to stay here. No following this time."

"What? No way!" she argued, "You can't just go alone! You need proper back up to deal with those guys, if you ask me."

"I'll be just fine, thank you." he told, snippy. A leather-covered finger pointed at her firmly. "And I'm not asking you. But I am ordering you to stay put. Call Dimmock while you do. It'll be done by the time the Yard arrive."

The eccentric turned on his heel then, starting to walk away when the back of his _Belstaff_ was grabbed. He angrily looked over his shoulder, ready to yell at the young woman but paused. She stared up at him with pleading brown eyes.

"Come back in one piece, git. You, John, and Sarah, all right?"

He reached behind him to gently remove her trembling hand. "..I promise, Marisol." Holmes hurried into the dark and didn't glance back again, fearing he might give in to his friend's original demand.

* * *

The sandbag hanging above was cut, allowing sand to pour fast all over the floor.

"Ladies and gentlemen, from the distant moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure, Sherlock Holmes' pretty companion in a death-defying act." Finished with her dramatic intro, Shan placed her death mark, the black origami lotus, on Sawyer's lap.

"You've seen the act before." she said to her after, "How dull for you. You know how it ends."

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" yelled John for what felt the hundredth time since he woke in the mad woman's clutches.

"I don't believe you!" Shan snapped at him. Then, suddenly out of nowhere, the detective's voice echoed around them.

"You should, you know. Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him." The woman turned around, pointing her weapon at the dark silhouette of a man before it disappeared to the right and out of her aim. A henchmen went after him then.

"How would you describe me, John?" asked his flatmate, "Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?"

"Late?" Watson added with a sigh.

Sherlock directed his next words through Shan. "That's a semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet with travel at over one thousand meters per second."

"Well?" she remarked, unimpressed.

"Well.." There was a loud clank as he struck the henchmen coming for him across the head, knocking him out instantly. He continued on, "The radius curvature of these walls is nearly four meters. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you."

A barrel was kicked over then, shrouding the place in even more darkness. The crazed woman ran in that direction as she planned to deal with the eccentric herself. But that just allowed Sherlock to sneak over behind Sarah and try to untie her. As the first knot loosen, a thick strip of fabric coiled around the enigmatic man's neck by no one but the very person who had done so back in Soo Lin's abandoned apartment—her brother, Zhi Zhu.

Sand still fall and the heavy weight dropped more with each second passed. Seeing his friend incapacitated, John managed to stand while still tied to his chair and moved a bit closer to the bow before falling.

Holmes struggled to fight the agile assassin off but with no luck just like before. Tighter and tighter, the cloth wrapped around him and cut off his air. Marisol wasn't around to save him this time, instead waiting by her scooter where he left her. He mentally regretted that decision. Just as black spots began to appear in his vision, the bang of a gun echoed in the tunnel.

Zhi Zhu grunted, letting the fabric slip from his grasp. The detective fell to the floor, coughing. He looked down to see blood seep from the spot where his collarbone and shoulder connected before trailing his unbelieving gaze forward. There, his shooter armed with army-issued Beretta M9 in hand, was Vallas; dark eyes cold and looking vehement.

"That's for hurting me and my friends, you son of a bitch."

He glared at her and went to attack when Watson turned the bow in his direction with his foot. The abrupt movement triggered the arrow to shoot out, striking the center of his stomach—an instant death.

"And that's for Soo Lin." her godfather added, slumping tiredly. Lowering her father's gun once their threat was dead, the young woman met Holmes's eyes, silently asking if he was fine. He just nodded and signaled her to go help John while did so for the other woman. She complied, hurrying over to undo the rope.

John looked over at poor Sarah then, promising softly. "Don't worry. Next date won't be like this."

* * *

**[Outside: Black Tramway; 11:17pm]**

"Didn't I tell you not to carry around your father's gun anymore?" Marisol sighed heavily. She and John at moment sat in the back of an ambulance parked among the many police cars in front of the tramway. Sarah was in another while Sherlock was off somewhere most likely talking to Dimmock about not mention them in his report. An EMT had just finished patching his superficial head wound before he questioned her.

"Yes, but we help a consulting detective with a knack for getting involved with killers. So, it came in handy, didn't it?"

He gave a short laugh, stepping out of the medical vehicle with her. "Yeah, I won't deny that..Still a good shot, I see."

"I practiced every chance I get. Dad would be proud." she shrugged, pausing for a moment. "..I'm sorry about what I said back at the flat. How I acted towards Sarah."

"Water under the bridge, Mari." Watson brushed off before saying their secret phrase for 'I Love You'. "Sugar in Tea?" She smiled, resting her forehead against his affectionately.

"Sugar in Tea, old man." He ruffled her hair and left to check on Sarah. The writer watched him go, glad it wasn't the last time they got to say that to each other.

"You shot the cabbie." came Sherlock's voice behind her then; his remark more of a statement than a question. She jumped when he did, letting out a small squeal and turning to glare at the tall smirking man.

"Cat's out of the bag." she said once composed.

_In the twin building of Roland-Kerr Further Education College, Marisol lowered the gun and quickly pressed her back against the wall by the window to keep from being seen. She couldn't believe it. She shot someone. Yes, a serial killer but still a person. But he was also trying to hurt Sherlock, a good person she recently discovered, and her morals couldn't allow that._

_The hand still clutching the fire arm trembled ever so slightly that she flicked the safety back on just in case. Peeking carefully through the open window, she saw Holmes' back to her across the way._

_She ran so fast out of the room then she almost fell. Reaching the stairwell, the young woman returned the gun to her satchel before calling John._

" _Marisol, are you all right? I heard—"_

" _John. I've done something terrible."_

"It just happen. I reacted before I could stop myself, but knew couldn't let you take that damn pill." Vallas sighed, rubbing her arm absentmindedly. Holmes just stood there, listening to her tell her side at the end of the 'A Study in Pink' case.

"And you two knew I would peg John for it, given his background." he finally pointed, all the puzzle pieces reconnecting in their correct pattern in his head. So, that explained what she meant by 'last time' back at the theatre. Soo Lin's apartment wasn't the first time she came to his rescue..which added up to three times now. That was more than what he had with her and John combined!

" _Oh, god. Am I becoming the cliche 'damsel in distress' character-type?"_ he shuddered at the very thought.

"Yup, plus my father's and John's are the same type." she told, "So if they had tracked it back, John would still take the blame for me."

"How annoying." the eccentric growled in frustration aloud then, "I loathe getting my deductions misdirected!"

"Well, I did grow up with the two men in the military. Me learning how to shoot when I got old enough should have been a given. But hey, we can't always be right." His friend patted his shoulder consolingly; a plain-as-day smug look on her face. "Oh, and I _hate_ to rub this in but I told you you don't know _everything_ about me."

"And as I told you before, I know enough." Holmes countered in a snide tone, "And that usually helps getting the rest which it did. So, I still win." Marisol blinked before giving an unladylike snort and bland 'whatever.'

"..Um..about that kiss—" she hesitantly began a moment later.

"My revenge." Sherlock told simply, though it was a lie. "I swore to give it soon, remember?." The two just stood there among the flashing red-and-blue lights while he silently hoped she believed his dishonest words.

"Right. Well played, Holmes. I'll give you that." Steely dark eyes turned on him. "But if you ever try something like that again, I'll kick you so hard between your legs, your brother Mycroft will feel it too." The genius chuckled, releasing his held breath with it, and nodded.

The writer gave her own curt one. "Now that being done and said, there's a soothing bubble bath with my name on it back home. Night, Sherly." Said person watched the beige trench coat-clad woman stroll away, keeping the thought of smooth light tan flesh covered in bubbly suds far from his conflicted brilliant mind.

* * *

**[John & Sherlock's flat: several days after 'The Blind Banker' Case; 8:12am]**

"Over a thousand years old and it's sitting on her beside table every night." John and Sherlock sat at the small cluttered table in the sitting room, having breakfast. Well, John is. The eccentric instead having a cup of Earl Grey with a splash of milk. Marisol is off doing her own agenda but sent them both a text with a promise of dinner later that day. So, the two men sit across from each other discussing Amanda, the unbeknownst owner of the Empress Pin until recently.

"He didn't know its value." stated Holmes about Van Coon, his eyes glued to the Today Express with the headline 'Who Wants to be a Million-Hair?' What an imbecile play on words, he thinks before continuing. "Didn't know why they were chasing him."

"Should've just got her a lucky cat." Watson remarked jokingly. It makes the eccentric remember the one he gave the young woman. The adorable look of surprise at first then shifting to stubborn pout of annoyance as she tells him once again she'd had bought it herself. Pushing away the flashback, he gave his flatmate a slight smirk before his mind drifted off.

The other man watched him. "You mind, don't you?"

"What?"

"That she escaped. General Shan. It's not enough that we got her two henchmen."

"Must be a vast network, John." the detective noted, unperturbed. "Thousand of operatives. You, Vallas, and I, we barely scratched the surface."

"You cracked the code though, Sherlock." the doctor pointed out, "And maybe Dimmock can track down all of them now he knows it."

Sherlock slightly shook his head. "No. No, I crack this code. All the smugglers have to do is pick up another book."

But little did they know, that General Shan and her band of smugglers would never return to the black market trade. As the saying goes, 'Cut off the head of the snake, and the body _dies_.'

**-TBC-**


	16. Picking Out the Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I wanted to go a completely different route for this chapter but then things got outta hand. The chapter started practically writing itself! And I was just an innocent bystander..It took a direction I wasn't quite ready to go that I kinda think borders on a rating change. Don't worry, it's nothing too mature..yet anyway. Some of you will most likely enjoy it though, heh. -Lovely

**[Minsk, Belarus]**

The stone visitation room where Sherlock was having this interaction with a Mr. Barry Berwick was unbearably cold; their breaths visible puffs of mist with each exhale or exchange of words. Whoever was in charged didn't care for its' inmates or visiting guests to turn on the heat. But from what the detective had seen moments ago, the building was aged—dated back to the early 1900's—and everything seemed the same as when it was first built minus the added element to adapt to the twenty first century. So the prison's heater was mostly likely old as well and hadn't been changed to save money or from his previous assumption, they just didn't give a damn to others' well being.

Even so, it didn't matter. He wouldn't be there long to develop the full symptoms of hypothermia. This so-called case he'd been requested of practically solved itself but Holmes need to get actual results as his words and knowledge were enough here.

" _Imbeciles."_ he thought with annoyance before saying aloud, "Just tell me what happened from the beginning."

"We had been to a bar," Berwick began, "Nice place, and, er, I got chatting with one of the waitresses, and Karen weren't happy with that, so..we get back to the hotel, we end up having a bit of a ding-dong, didn't we?" The man across him just sighed heavily as if it was a burden already just listening..which it was.

He continued, "She's always getting at me, saying I weren't a real man."

"Wasn't a real man." corrected the genius suddenly.

"What?"

"It's not _'weren't'_ , it's _'wasn't'_."

"..Oh." Barry said calmly though giving a bit of an unsettling look. Sherlock wasn't intimidated at all by it, keeping his bored expression as he told him to go on.

"Well..then I don't know how it happened, but suddenly there's a knife in my hands.." Disinterested blue eyes glanced at him. He then went on a small tangent. "..And me old man was a butcher, so I know how to handle knives. He learned us how to cut up a beast."

" _Is this guy serious?"_ Marisol's voice commented, disbelieving in his mind. _"He's practically admitting to wanting to do it!"_ He ignored it, strangely used to the random interruptions by then.

"Taught." he told aloud in his ever-bored tone.

"What?" the detained man said, suddenly becoming agitated by his grammar lesson.

"Taught you how to cut up a beast."

"Yeah, well, then I done it."

"Did it."

"Did it! Stabbed her," Barry exclaimed angrily. "Over and over and over, and I looked down, and she weren't—"

The judging man exhaled sharply. "..Wasn't..moving no more." An exasperated expression now. " _Any more.._ God help me, I dunno how it happened, but it was an accident, I swear."

" _Goodness, this was far too easy."_ Figment Vallas sighed as Holmes stood swiftly and started to walk away.

"You've got to help me, Mr. Holmes!" Berwick begged. Said person paused. "Everyone says you're the best. Without you..I'll get hung for this."

"No, no, Mr. Berwick, not at all." he told with a false consolingly tone before correcting his grammar one final time. "Hanged, yes."

* * *

 **[London, England on April 17** **th** **; 8:41pm]**

There was something oddly gratifying about punching a bag full of sand. Especially when each solid hit given caused it not to swing like a pendulum. Marisol learned fast over the past few weeks that was the correct technique if you wanted to do some actual damage to a person.

After the Blind Banker case, she decided it would be a good idea to learn some self-defense. The young woman wasn't big on the idea of exercise but if she was planning on continuing to help out it was greatly needed. John and Sherlock were astonishingly all for it when she mentioned it last month. Well, it was more surprising coming from the eccentric.

" _I could teach you a few things if you like." Brown eyes blinked at the causally indifferent man sipping the chamomile tea she prepared for herself. She had still been healing from the slow fading bruises then; the tea was helping with that. John had looked at him with equal surprise._

" _Well..Sherlock Holmes is capable of being nice. What an honor to witness." he muttered behind his cup. Said person glared across from him, having easily heard._

_The young woman chuckled softly. "Thanks, Holmes but I think it would be better if I learned from someone else."_

" _How so? I'm highly skilled in Bartitsu and sword fighting." the man told, looking actually offended "Who else could qualify other than me?"_

" _And there's the Sherlock we know and can't stand." Marisol deadpanned, making John laugh as well._

She told him after she'd end up quitting if he did so, knowing they would get easily frustrated with each other given their love/hate relationship. Instead, the eccentric had called in a favor a trainer helped out years ago who owed him.

Rory McDermott was well-known retired boxer who coached newcomers for a living along with some one-on-one self defense lessons when requested. For his age—fifty since last May—he was very fit and had a likable personality. The two hit it off well first thing which helped when he gave complicated instructions. The writer was thankfully a fast learner and only complained about the tough workouts when in the presence of Watson and Holmes.

She grimaced, hitting the bag harder when remembering the bad charlie horse she got after forgetting to stretch before jogging. Holmes bent over laughing as she laid bawling across her godfather in his armchair while he massaged her stiff calf.

Vallas rested her head against the black fabric of the heavy bag, sighing out a tired breath. But the real reason for her not choosing Sherlock was how physical they would have had to be and with how she reacted to riding Daisy with him, she knew it'd be worse seeing the eccentric all sweaty and—Her already flushed cheeks burned brighter at the thought. She'd been doing that lately ever since that revenge kiss..

" _Which is stupid. So quit it, brain!"_ Shaking her head, dark eyes glanced over at the clock on the wall.

It was close to closing time and she was starving, in desperate need of a pizza all of a sudden. She wondered if John was hungry? Probably, knowing how sparse their fridge got even after a full shopping which was strange seeing how one of them barely ate. Plus, said person was out of town on a possible case.

She was planning on using a cab anyway, so she could stop by after getting food, steal a shower, and munch with him before heading home. Removing her earphones, the writer tossed her iPod in her small duffel bag before picking it up and heading out into the refreshing cool air, not bothering to put on a jacket.

* * *

**[221B: Sherlock & John's residence; 9:20pm]**

The eccentric was currently alone in his sitting room, stretched out lazily in his armchair. He sighed heavily for what seemed like the hundredth time since arriving back. A door opening loudly downstairs was heard. John had arrived, knowing well it wasn't Mrs. Hudson who he sent on a small errand not too long ago. Or..it could be Marisol seeing that she had a spare key to the building now. He dearly hoped it was. He was bored out of his mind and she was a fun distraction to mess with.

Raising his left hand, John's handgun was pointed towards the Victorian-styled wall now graced with a yellow spray-painted smiley face and fired several shots in random areas. A half smile formed on his lips. He could imagine her reaction already—the young woman's lithe form clad in whatever ensemble she chose that day storming into the room to stand across from him, dark gaze narrowed angrily.

" _What the hell are you doing, you git?! Mrs. Hudson's gonna wring your neck when she sees this!"_ But to his disappointment—adding to the large list already—it was his flatmate who said half of those predicted words. Covering his ear from the piercing bangs, he came hurrying up the stairs and stopped just outside the open doorway.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock pouted slightly. _"Damn. Not her..oh, well. John will do then."_

"Bored." came the other's plain reply. Meeting his gaze, his lighter blue eyes found him giving a bewildered expression. He obviously wasn't expecting the eccentric to be home when he got back from wherever—most likely Sarah's see how much time they've been spending together. It made his mind drift again to their lovable writer and her slow-budding relationship with Adam doing cliché couple activities like going to the movies or taking walks together. The thought made the acid in his stomach bubble unpleasantly and his somewhat loose grip on the gun tighten.

" _Why do I care?..More importantly, why does it bother me?!"_

"What?" the doctor queried, taken back.

"Bored!" Holmes said louder, standing quickly.

"No—"

Another gunshot. "Bored!" And then one more before Watson sped over and took the weapon from him, placing it back in his lock box which Holmes no doubt picked.

"Don't know what's got into the criminal classes." Sherlock complained, making his way across the room to inspect the damage. "Good job I'm not one of them."

"So you take it out on the wall?" the other man asked him, wondering if he'd ever truly understand what went through that brilliant mind of his at times.

"The wall had it coming.." While John finally got comfortable, the genius collapsed dramatically on their couch like the diva he tended to be at times.

"What about that Russian case?"

"Belarus? Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."

"Oh, shame." John remarked with sarcasm, heading into the kitchen which was a mess and cluttered with the other man's things. Vallas had just cleaned it while Sherlock was gone for a couple of days and had been that way still when he left hours ago. Well, all he knew was when she saw this, she was gonna tear Holmes a new one.

"Anything in? I'm starving." The older man opened the fridge only to quickly slam it shut. "Oh, f.." Opening it again, he engaged in a staring match with a disembodied head of an unknown male. He was shocked and disturbed to say the least. If not for his traumatic experiences being in the face of war, his empty stomach would have turned violently at the morbid sight. The doctor peered into its' milky eyes for a good minute before shutting the metal door finally.

"There's a head.." he muttered dumbly to himself and then shouted in the direction of the sitting room, "A severed head!"

"Just tea for me, thanks." chimed Sherlock coolly. As if having some dead stranger's head was the most normal thing ever..but knowing the eccentric.. _it probably was._

Watson walked over to confront the odd man. "No, there's a head in the fridge."

"Yes?"

"A bloody head!"

"What's this about a head?" Blue eyes looked over to the open door to find his goddaughter there. She stood there looking between the two expectantly.

"For some insane reason I've yet to be told about," John unfortunately clarified, "Holmes has a damn decomposing head in the refrigerator!"

"Well, where else could I put it?" the genius stated simply, glancing at him. "You don't mind, do you?"

"That can't be sanitary..Ever thought about investing in an ice box?" Marisol teased with a smirk. She couldn't say she wasn't shocked to see it but when you're acquainted with someone like the detective, this was kinda common. Blase eyes glimpsed in her direction, only to wide slightly at the unanticipated sight he was met with.

_She was so exposed._

Standing now beside Watson with her duffel bag still on one shoulder and a large pizza box in her hands, the young woman had obviously came from the gym. She somehow managed to pull her curly locks back into a low bun, leaving her bangs draped across her forehead. Her face was void of makeup, showing her natural beauty more and still dewy skin; her hands were still wrapped up in gauze and tape.

She was dressed in a purple loose racerback tank top that hardly covered the straps of her black sports bra with tight grey yoga pants and a pair of obnoxiously colored trainers. His heavy gaze trailed down her light tan arms where the lean muscle visible now since she began her fitness regimes.

As he did so, Vallas took him in as well. She'd never seen him in his sleepwear before. The grey loose t-shirt and striped blue pajama pants were an extreme difference from his fancy dress clothes he preferred to wear daily. They made him seem like a normal everyday person but were peculiarly very much the enigmatic man.

" _God! Is there anything this man doesn't look good in?"_ she thought wildly. Her cheeks reddened. _She did it again._

Meanwhile, he was tempted to engaged her into a friendly sparing match right there upon seeing her new found strength. As the image of him pinning her down to the floor with her looking up at him flushed and out of breath, Sherlock steeled his running mind and turned away, locking his gaze on the far less interesting ceiling instead.

"Late night sparing session with Adam, eh Vallas?" he pondered in a blank tone that was anything but. She bristled a tad at the subtle suggestiveness his question invoked; all her inappropriate thoughts involving him washed away like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on her head.

"No, unfortunately, git." she snapped.

" _Of course not."_ the genius mentally noted, _"You'd be in a better mood if you had."_ Another fact he observed since her dating the young man: whenever she'd just been with him, she was far more bubbly than normal afterwards.

"Back on the topic beforehand," the other man interrupted as he was still reeling about the possible crime scene back in their kitchen. "Why do— _no, how_ did you get such a thing?"

Holmes sighed with burdened exhale. "Got it from Barts morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death." John ran a hand down his tired face at his statement while Marisol slumped slightly with relief.

"Well, it's a step better than grave robbing." she noted to the doctor, earning a glare from the brooding detective. A wide grin was given back.

"Anywho! If you still have an appetite, I brought food. Figured you might be hungry." the writer informed her godfather, lifting the cardboard box to show. "Half cheese, half pepperoni."

He nodded with a grateful smile. "Starving actually. Thank you, Mari." While she disappeared into the kitchen, Sherlock addressed his flatmate suddenly.

"I see you've written up the taxi driver case."

"Uh oh, that's my cue to leave." the young woman said once mentioned, speeding towards the door and tossing over her shoulder. "I'm stealing your shower again, Holmes! Hope you don't mind!" Said person didn't bother with a reply as her footsteps were already heard going up the stairs towards his room. His bathroom was bigger and the hot water came out faster from what she told him. Usually, he didn't care if people went in there since he hardly used it but the idea of Marisol in there always made him unease, nervous even.

Not wanting to delve on why, he tuned back into his conversation with Watson who now sat in Sherlock's chair eating a slice of greasy cheese pizza.

" _A Study In Pink_. Nice."

"Well, you know. Pink lady, pink case, pink phone. There was a lot of pink. Marisol proofread it for me and..very much enjoyed it." John hesitated for a moment, remembering her fast exit. "Did you like it?"

Sherlock skimmed one of his science magazines. "Um.. _no._ "

"Why not? I thought you'd be flattered."

"Flattered?" He put the magazine down, quoting in a peeved manner. " _Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things._ "

"Hang on, I didn't mean that—" his flatmate tried to reason.

"Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way." the eccentric said, mocking. "Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister or.."

"Yeah, I know." mumbled the doctor as he had another bite of his food.

"Who's sleeping with who.."

"Or whether the Earth goes round the sun."

"Oh, god, that again." the other man groaned, "It's not important!"

"Not impor—?!" John exasperated, "It's primary school stuff. How can you not know that?"

"Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it."

Watson raised a brow. "Deleted it?"

Holmes sat up then, looking at him firmly as he began to explain his bizarre method. "Listen. This is my hard drive," His finger pointed to his head. "And it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. _Really_ useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish. That makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

A tense silence passed between them.

"But it's the solar system!" the older man proceeded to still argue.

"Oh, hell! What does that matter? So we go round the sun. If we went round the moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference! All that matters to me is the work! Without that, my brain rots!" Sherlock ruffled his hair in annoyance before fixing a glare at John. "Put that in your blog! Or, better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world!" Done with their idiotic debate, he flopped back onto the couch and put his back to him as if he were a stubborn child.

John needed to leave. He couldn't stay in the same room with a melancholy consulting detective without throttling him. His gaze drifted to the half-eaten pizza, feeling guilty after Marisol had gone through the trouble of getting food for him. But she'd understand, knowing well how he was feeling once she figured out why he left. So, John shrugged his coat back on without a word. Though, the sudden movement still alerted Holmes of the change in the silent room.

Sherlock looked at him over his shoulder. "Where are you going?" he questioned him, almost accusing.

"Out! I need some air." Watson told snippy as he left, storming pass Mrs. Hudson. The genius grumbled and angrily repositioned himself when she stepped in.

"Ooh-ooh! Have you two had a little domestic?" He was never going to get any form of peace now. Mentally groaning, he scrambled up before making his way towards the windows to watch John leave.

"Look at that, Mrs. Hudson." he noted, peering at the almost empty street. His words laced with small bitterness. "Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it hateful?"

"Oh, I'm sure something will turn up, Sherlock." the older woman reassured in her motherly way. "A nice murder. That'll cheer you up."

"Mmm. Can't come too soon."

"Hey!" she exclaimed, seeing the damaged wall now. "What have you done to my bloody wall?" Stepping away from the window, he peered at his handiwork with a smug smirk. She pointed a scolding finger at him before leaving. "I'm putting this on your rent, young man!" Sherlock said nothing as he stood alone in the middle of the room. He briefly mimicked the smile there, sighing afterwards.

"Where has my chaos gone?" he asked sadly in the silence. As if answering, the windows exploded inward and the building shook so hard it knocked him off his feet. Chaos hadn't gone anywhere. It had just taken a short interlude.

* * *

"Ah. That's was nice." hummed Marisol, wrapping one of Holmes' fluffy towels around her. She'd been in this bathroom a couple times—immaculately clean and minimal. Just the average things anyone would find in a man's bathroom; facts known from sharing one with John. She guessed it was because of the detective's eccentric personality she expected..hell, the young woman wasn't sure exactly what but it hadn't been what it currently was.

While all his toiletries were typical, the branding for each was another story. Holmes catered to high quality items. For example, the traditional-looking double edge safety razor and shaving kit items with expensive shaving cream and aftershave the young woman found poking around in the medicine cabinet. Curious, she took a sniff of the aftershave and was met with the familiar oaky scent she'd accustomed to the detective. The lovely smell practically made her swoon some. She blushed, realizing how silly and not to mention creepy she was being and quickly placed the blue-tinted bottle back.

Remembering how long she'd been in there already, Vallas stepped over to her duffel bag on the tiled floor and knelt down to receive her spare clothing. As she picked up a pair of Wonder Woman themed panties, a violent tremor shook 221b's brick foundation, knocking her down on her side to met the square tiles there hard.

"Ow.." Disoriented, she carefully sat up, rubbing the bump that was likely to form on the side of her head where it connected with the ground. "What was that? An earthquake or something?" Brown eyes widen then as feeling of dread struck her. London didn't experience earthquakes. _Ever._ So it was something else..something terribly bad. Scrambling to her bare feet, she fumbled to unlock the door and sped out of the room to the stairs. Her panicked mind was filled with only concern for the two men she left down below. She took them two at a time until she was met with the cloudy mess the homey sitting room had been reduced to.

Distracted by the costly destruction, a low groaning came off to the side and made her whip her baffled head in its' direction. Sherlock laid on the dirtied carpet among glass and broken bits of window framing.

"Sherlock!" The writer hurried to his side to help him sit up. On the outside, he appeared unharmed but that did stop her motherly instincts from running about like a headless chicken. "You all right? What happen? Where's John?" Confused clear blues lifted, sucking in a breath.

Marisol stared down at him, doe eyes wide with fear. Water droplets still dripped from her damp locks and he helplessly watched trail down over her slightly prominent clavicle to disappear in the valley of her petite covered breasts. His gaze was then directed to the fact she was only dressed in the baby blue towel he owned. She was most definitely nude underneath. He gulped like a man depraved of water as his lower parts twitched at the tantalizing display before him. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

"Holmes?" she uttered, tilting her head and making her short locks drape sensually over one shoulder. He groaned again. It oddly seemed like she almost knew what she was doing to him but he knew that was not true. She was simply concern for his well being which had his heart contract painfully at the kind gesture. Even so, he couldn't help but bitterly blame her.

" _Why are you doing this to me?"_

He gripped her arm for balance and stability, meeting her dark gaze with irritation. "Please. Your deafening shrieking isn't helping with the ringing in my possibly erupted eardrums..and don't forget to breathe." She sharply exhaled a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. An annoyed expression graced her once worried features.

"Good to see that wonderful personality is still in place after being knocked on your smart arse." she deadpanned, "Now answer my questions since you're obviously fine."

He carefully sat crossed legged on the floor beside her crouched form, ruffling the bits of glass from his hair. "John's most likely fine since he left long before the explosion occurred. Can't say for sure the same for Mrs. Hudson yet—"

"Mrs. Hudson is here? Oh no!" Marisol shot up and turned on her heel towards the door when a sharp pain run up both of her legs. A startled gasp escaped her as she almost collapsed if Holmes hadn't caught her around the waist in time. Before she could ever registered what happen, she was swept off her feet and into the detective's strong arms, taken into the still messy kitchen.

"What is the world are you doing? Put me down!" she shrieked, holding on to the towel keeping her body from being exposed for dear life. He said nothing. Just rolled his eyes dramatically before plopping her on top the only cleared space next to the kitchen sink.

A stern finger was pointed at her. "Stay put." With a twirl of his unfasten navy blue dressing gown, the bossy eccentric vanished downstairs. Huffing, Marisol adjusted the towel around her before crossing her arms in a defiant manner. She looked down to where the pain came from to find many tiny cuts at the soles of her feet; no doubt with glass embedded inside. She cringed, guessing the abrupt burst of adrenaline in her blinded her common sense to be careful walking when seeing a fallen Holmes.

The genius returned after awhile with a heavy duty first aid kit. "Mrs. Hudson is fine, but shaken up. She was lucky in a place with no windows at the time."

"That's good." Vallas sighed in relief. He placed the box down beside her and went to stepped into the sitting room still bare foot then.

"Oi! Put some shoes on or else you'll end up like me!" Vallas told strictly. He threw his head back with a loud sigh before disappearing once more; upstairs this time. House slippers adorned his feet when she saw him again, bringing a proud smirk on her face. Among the dusty desk, he found his phone and sent a fast text to someone as he strolled back into the kitchen with the patient bleeding woman.

"Did you just text Lestrade?"

"No. He'll come on his own once news travels which will be before the hour ends."

Brown eyes quietly observed him opening the kit and receiving a tweezers, a plastic bottle of Isopropyl alcohol, tiny scissors, and a roll of gauze. Snapping on a pair of lilac-colored latex gloves provided from a box in the overhead cupboards, he uncapped the antiseptic and poured some on a bit of gauze to sterilize the tweezers.

He then sat down in a chair in front of her and lifted one of her feet without warning. A startled squeak escaped her as she quickly placed a hand between her legs to keep the towel from revealing her intimate place. Sherlock raised a brow, smirking in response. He inspected the damage and glanced up at her; his eyes clearly held no good news.

"There's definitely glass fragments lodged in some. I'll have to take them out so try to be very still while I do so." The writer nodded with a frown. Holmes then began the tedious task.

As they sat there in silence—Sherlock incredibly focused and Marisol wincing slightly from the pain now and then—the memories of several weeks ago flooded the young woman's mind. John had been in a similar position when he patched her up at the _Zhi Zhu incident_ it was now forever dubbed. Those wounds were faded to almost thin white scars on her by now. The eccentric was nowhere as aged as her godfather was in the medical field but he was doing an amazingly fantastic job so far.

Bored from sitting still, she let her gaze roam his face. Blue eyes were attentive on her cuts, his dark brows furrowed a tad. Top teeth bit into his bottom lip from concentration. Their brief kiss flashed in her mind's eye, causing her to let out a shaky breath which the man assumed was because of the pain and how tense she was. But if he had peered up then, he would have seen the inviting heated look swimming in her brown eyes. She was all of a sudden hyper aware of every little thing he did.

The pleasant pressure his fingers curved around her exposed ankle created. The light breeze from his breath colliding with the skin of her bare sole. That with the wrong shift, the only barrier from him witnessing everything she'd been born with could easily slip away, allowing him to raking those calculating crystal blues over her form to store in that mind palace of his. Before those sinful lips leaned forward and latched—

The young woman turned her head to the side, face burning with fire-hot shame.

She was horrible. Having such lusty imagery of her dear friend that only an erotic novelist could possibly think up. _"Maybe I should do that for a career?"_ came a sarcastic afterthought.

She was dating Adam for goodness' sake! The guy she had a crush since forever. _He_ should be a constant on her mind, not the enigmatic man seated before her as if she was Cinderella and him the prince about to return the glass slipper to its' rightful place. Marisol chuckled aloud at the random comparison.

"What's so amusing?" asked Sherlock as he started on her other foot.

Bouncy curls shook slightly. "N-Nothing. Just had a funny thought."

"Oh, now I'm intrigued. Care to share?"

"Won't that distract you from your task?" she questioned, clarifying while peeking at him from the corner of her eye. "Talking?"

He smirked, "Not really. Now, stop stalling and spill." His injured friend grumbled under her what sounded like 'I'm not stalling, git'.

"Us right now." she confessed, her tone timid. "It's oddly, if not morbidly, similar to that scene in Cinderella."

"..These cuts aren't deep enough for you to lose your toes, Vallas." remarked the detective flatly. She blinked, off-guard before laughing; the sound of it considered wonderful to the man's recovering ears.

"I didn't mean the _Brothers Grimm_ version! I meant the _Disney_ one." He scrunched his nose in disdain at that.

"I greatly prefer the other."

"I'm not surprised." They shared a smile. "Well, since we're talking, wish to tell in details why my godfather left? Did you upset him with your rude opinion of his blog post?"

"Since you read it as well, I had every right to my so-called rude opinion. But the reason he left wasn't just that. We began arguing on how it wasn't important that I couldn't remember primary school science and what really was."

"Oh..like how you don't know the— _Ow_ , you bastard!" His deft fingers removed a piece of glass too quickly. She glared at him for a moment, wishing to slap him. " _Anyway!_ It was probably that and how childish you can be at times. And don't you dare pull out another one roughly just because I'm stating facts!" He frowned, proving her assumption right.

"As I said to him, that stuff doesn't matter."

"Watch how wrong you'll be when you do eventually get stumped by something you lack."

The eccentric gave her a crossed look while swiping away dried blood and dabbing disinfectant on her wounds. "I highly doubt that." Marisol just hummed with a _'whatever you say'_ expression. Once both feet were neatly bandaged, he helped her down.

"Thank you, Sherlock." his only other friend said, "It would have been a pain to do myself."

Said person just shrugged. "I didn't want to hear Watson scolding me for not helping when I could." The young woman inwardly flinched, strangely hurt by his admittance. But what did she expect him to say? That he was more than happy too? Not likely.

She smiled softly up at the tall man. "Even so, I really appreciate it. Honestly." He peered down at her, quiet. Holmes' eyes immediately landed on the cheek where a thin jagged scar forever rest. Without thinking, his hand reached up and cupped the spot, caressing his thumb along the line. Dark brown eyes drooped half-hooded from the gentle, unpredicted touch with a shuddery breath. A gratifying shiver ran down his spine then; his pride boosting at the fact he himself caused such a reaction from her.

He needed _—no, craved_ more.

Leaning down, his closed lips replaced his thumb's action. She gasped in surprise, pressing a hand against his chest unconsciously and, instead of pushing him away like he believed, curling her fingers. Slowly, a sly smirk that could almost rival the _Cheshire Cat_ formed. They were so close now. All he had to do was turn his head and capture her delicate pink lips once again, reliving the metaphoric heaven they previously placed him in.

"Holmes!" The two jumped apart like two caught teenagers, snapping their heads in the direction of the kitchen doorway. There, a frantic but concern Lestrade stood. His brown eyes glanced curiously at them, seeming to silently read the electric scene. The young woman blushed but put on a wide happy smile when addressing her friend, as if no heated moment passed between them.

"Wow, you were right, Sherlock! He did make it before the next hour." she laughed lightly, looking back at detective. "Well! Thanks again for playing doctor—" The two men raised their brows. She blushed brighter than ever at her idiotic choice of words. She frantically pointed to her wrapped feet to show the Inspector. "I stepped on glass so that's why I—oh, never mind. I'm gonna go and finally change now." Vallas scurried out of the smothering room, adding fast. "Help yourself to some pizza if you're hungry, Lestrade."

Once gone, Lestrade glanced at Holmes who stood there, staring after the woman. He thought he saw a flicker of disappointment across his light-colored eyes.

"Uh..did I interrupt something?"

Cool blues snapped over to him. "..No."

"Right.." the other man said after a tense moment, deciding not to press. It wasn't his business anyway. While they began discussing the explosion, Marisol stood at the top of the stairs. A trembling hand—the one she placed on the genius' chest—was pressed over her wildly beating heart. She breathed heavily, squeezing her eyes shut to gain better control of her emotions.

" _..It's all Sarah's stupid observation fault! That's dumb prank on Holmes too!"_ she blamed with bitterness, feeling the urge to cry from the guilty confusion coursing through her. _"..And the_ _damn bloody kiss we shared."_

_**I taste you on my lips and I can't get rid of you** _

_**So I say damn your kiss and the awful things you do** _

_**Yeah, you're worse than nicotine** _

-Nicotine, Panic! At the Disco

**-TBC-**


	17. Blast from the Past (pt.1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. I'm back to writing, at last! So, hooray!

**[221B: Sherlock & John's residence; 10:51pm]**

Sherlock fell into the uncomfortable kitchen chair with an exhausted sigh. He wasn't actually tired since insomnia was a dear close friend who loved to pester him now and again. No, the sigh was more from having to deal with Lestrade and the debacle that sudden explosion caused. It intrigued him but not enough to get involved though. Also, his brilliant mind was too distracted with other thoughts..

Well, more like _a certain someone_.

Marisol hadn't returned downstairs once after fleeing and he knew already why.

Holmes had crossed the line and now she was peeved with him; most likely thinking he was taking the piss with her again. Normally, he wouldn't care. Except this time..he did. He oddly wanted nothing more than to leave the kitchen, rush upstairs, and sincerely apologize for his actions. That was another uncharacteristic trait for the eccentric; known very well to be an apathetic person no matter what. Luckily, his willpower managed to remain intact.

And yet, the whole time speaking with the Detective Inspector, he found his gaze trailing towards the kitchen doorway in search of said person. And each time, she wouldn't be there quietly listening as she leaned against the door frame in her usual stance—arms crossed with a slightly pinched but attentive expression. Then feeling his gaze on her like always, dark browns would land on him looking annoyed and silently saying 'Stop staring at me, git.'

The man sighed again.

His knowledge on the young woman was alarming; obsessive, if he honestly admitted. Yes, studying people constantly was a daily occurrence for him. It was a part of his odd personality and went perfectly with his line of work after all, but his attention to detail when concerning Vallas was vast. She was such an astonishingly interesting individual to learn..and it all started because of her strange way of constantly surprising him.

She was able to figure out exactly what his thoughts and emotions were at times. His own brother couldn't perfectly achieve such a skill even after years of knowing him. Also, how almost startlingly in sync they could be. It already had gotten to a point where Watson believed his flatmate was a terrible influence on his sweet goddaughter. And while Vallas stated on multiple occasions to consider him as the 'irritating bane of my existence', she cared for him just as much as John and completely trusted him in the little time since meeting.

Head tumbling with bewildering emotions, the eccentric leaned forward with an annoyed groan.

" _I believe the lack of use is making my hard drive malfunction."_ he tried to reason with himself, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes to try and banish the disorienting feelings towards his friend.

He had to get her out of 221B. The longer she continued to stay there within arms reach, the less likely he would be able to reset himself and expel the baffling _chemical defects_ plaguing his mind and actions. Resolved, he stood so abruptly that if anyone had been near him then, the action would have startled them.

Which it did.

"Geez!" He whipped his head around to find the very woman who consumed his waking thoughts. She held a hand to her chest, exhaling a breath to calm her fast heart. Marisol had replaced the now infamous blue towel with regular clothes—a plain oversized blue shirt and ripped jeans. Those bright trainers..Her trench coat draped around her tense shoulders as a familiar constant like her curly hair; duffel bag held tight in her other hand.

She was planning to leave, just like he wanted, and yet now..

No. Sherlock wouldn't allow himself to finish that thought. So, he stayed quiet and waited for her to speak instead.

"So.." she finally drawled out after a few awkward moments of silence, fidgeting from foot to foot while avoiding his gaze. _'_ _Look at me.'_ a pathetic voice that sounded like his own pledged inside his head. He promptly told it to 'Shut it.' "Is it okay to leave now?" Dark browns lifted, a puffy redness surrounding them.

The detective stiffen.

Vallas had been crying. _He_ _caused_ _her_ _to_ _cry._

Stricken, he silently nodded. The writer visibly relaxed then, obviously relieved she wouldn't be stuck with him any longer.

" _Understandable.."_ Holmes remarked with strong self-loathing.

"Well, I'll get going then." Her voice sounding gentle but wary. It struck a painful nerve in the enigmatic man. "Make sure the pizza doesn't go to waste, alright?" Before he could reply, she finished with a rushed 'Good night, Sherlock' and scurried down the stairs without another look back. The detective stayed frozen until hearing the front door slam close.

His feet moved faster than they ever had afterwards, hurrying over the shattered glass and his scattered belongings to the broken window. Clear blues peeked out from behind the tattered curtain to see a small crowd had gather down below with officers moving about the debris. Lestrade was still among them, now speaking to the flustered young woman; no doubt asking if she needed assistance getting home. It was impossible to hear their discussion exactly due to the obnoxious sirens and rush of water as firefighters tried to bade the flames across the street.

Marisol shook her head and gave short polite but tight smile, opening her mouth to say more when a loud shout of her name was heard over the noise.

The older man and writer turned—Holmes' watchful gaze turning steely—as none other than Adam pushed through the small crowd. He stopped in front of the two, clearly out of breath. The younger man was dressed in his leather jacket and knitted gray beanie, looking like the typical hipster. Sherlock couldn't help the condescending sneer that formed at the sight. He watched as the newly budding lovers exchanged words; Ridgell questioning her condition worryingly while she reassured him that she was all right. A relieved and absolutely dopey expression took over the young man's face once believing.

"..He looks stupidly enamored." The detective's stomach involuntarily twisted something awful at that vocal revelation. Clear blues narrowed as she then wrapped his arm around Marisol's shoulders and pulled her close before leaning his face down to her level. A soft kiss was seen pressed affectionately on her cheek— _the one with the thin, jagged scar._

A jolt of pain brought Holmes out of his intense staring. His gaze snapped to his left hand where it had curled tight around the broken window frame, allowing the glass pieces that still clung there to become embedded in the flesh of his palm. Slowly, he removed his hand to watch as the blood quickly beaded to the surface. He squeezed his injured hand tight and greatly welcomed the painful sensation it created.

Sometimes pain was a welcomed substitute to his usual deadly vice to distract him from the other _inflictions_ he wasn't ready to address quite yet..

* * *

**[Sarah Sawyer's residence on April 18th; 8:38am]**

A displeased groan escaped Watson as he turned his head carefully, trying to work the kink out of his neck. It was the price to pay for sleeping on Sarah's small sofa instead of the air mattress. Going to her place was the first that came to his angry mind last night. Sure, he could have gone to Marisol's since she'd been nice enough to offer him her spare key. It was part of the reason she gave it to him, knowing well already how Holmes pushed his buttons. But the doctor still felt awkward about intruding in her own space even with her benevolent permission.

Plus, he needed to rant to someone about what happen and his co-worker was the second best choice. She'd interacted a bit with Sherlock before the Black Tramway catastrophe and knew also he wasn't the most easiest person to get along with. So, over a bottle of wine, Sawyer kindly listened to his complaining and afterwards offered to let him spend the night.

Once the pain became somewhat tolerable again, he returned to putting back on his shoes.

"Morning." came Sarah's cheery voice then. She strolled into her living room clad only in a baby blue dressing gown.

"Oh—" John turned his head too fast which caused him to irritate his stiff neck. He grimaced and rubbed the spot, returning the greeting meekly. "M-Morning."

The woman gave him slightly chastening look. "See? Told you should have gone with the _Lilo._ "

"No, no, no. It's fine. I slept fine." he tried to politely reassure. "It's very kind of you."

"Well, maybe next time I'll let you kip at the end of my bed, you know." she teased, turning her tv on to show the morning news.

"What about the time after that?" Watson inquired in casual but serious tone. His co-worker said nothing, just smile before making a quip about him making breakfast for himself. She then disappeared into her bathroom and John was left alone once again; the drab newscaster's voice the only one keeping him company now. He tuned into what was being said that time as a way to distract himself from the idea of Sarah undressing not too far behind a closed door.

" _There's been a massive explosion in central London._ " Blue eyes lifted to the screen and his blood ran cold. There, images of the destruction on Baker Street were briefly shown. But it was enough to see that the explosion happened right across the street from his apartment.

" _Oh..god no."_

" _As yet, there are no reports of any casualties—_ " The newscaster didn't say the exact time it occurred either but just the reminder that Sherlock and Marisol had been there still even after he left had him standing from the sofa and out the door.

* * *

**[En route: Baker Street; 8:59am]**

Watson sat in the back of a cab, stiff with nervous tension. His hand held his phone in an almost vise grip; deep blues shifting constantly from the screen to the window. Early morning traffic blurred by as people went about starting the day, heading to work, school, or elsewhere to spend their time. The weather was cool and cloudy with no real threat of rain just yet. But he cared less about all that at the moment. He just wanted to return home and make sure nothing bad happen to the two people he truly cared about.

He glanced at his phone again.

Six texts sent to Holmes and Vallas; three for the both of them. Neither had replied yet, fueling the panic in him to increase.

When he left last night, his goddaughter had still been there. He didn't know the exact time the explosion occurred—the news neglected to mention such details—but knowing that she tended to spend the night made his imagination run wild.

His mind almost mirrored his goddaughter's from weeks ago during his kidnapping. The same troublesome thoughts swirled in his head the whole way; a lot of 'what if's' and the possibility that he could have lost the only person he considered truly his family. Along with memories of the young woman growing up before his eyes to last night, happy to see him and graced with his favorite food.

The idea of no longer seeing her smile filled him with such fear that a strong wave of nausea came from it. The doctor couldn't lose her, having promised years ago to look after her as his own. And she was. He considered her to be his daughter since then. He couldn't go on existing without her bubbly but sassy personality brightening his days. And then there was Holmes. They left on bad terms and over something so idiotic now that he looked back. The man was also his only friend; the same going for him to the other enigmatic man.

" _No. Stop that."_ his inner voice scolded as he tried to swallow back the awful feeling. _"Think positive. Stay hopeful."_ He nodded, taking a deep breath as his slumped body straighten. The deeply engrained military training helped strengthen his resolve more.

The taxi came to a halt then, pulling him out of his inner battle. Taking a quick look at his surroundings, they were a good half a block away still.

"Sorry, mate, but this is the closest I can get with the road blocked off." the driver explained him. John thanked and paid the man before hopping out to jog the rest of the way.

* * *

**[221B: Sherlock & John's residence; 9:10am]**

A good amount of people had gathered near the scene. The destruction was a lot worse once seen in person; a massive burnt hole in the building across the street. On the side of 221B, the blast appeared to have only damaged the windows but looks could be very deceiving. Pushing through the group of people, John hurried inside once given 'the okay' from the police officers there.

"Sherlock! Marisol!" his voice called in the quiet of the flat. No response was given. He sped up the stairs, calling for the two again. Coming to a stop inside the sitting room, Watson was taken back by the sight that greeted him.

The Holmes brothers were casually sitting among the leftover debris, acting as if it wasn't even there and were simply catching up. John knew better though in his short time since meeting the both. The government official was never one for social calls, just like the younger. He only ever showed his face when he wished for something to be done by them. But the doctor would ask about that later. At the moment, he still needed to know the well beings of his friend and goddaughter.

"..John." his flatmate greeted upon seeing him. His lithe fingers plucked absentmindedly at his violin and a pizzicato note filled the awkward silence. John took a brief mental note of his other hand; wrapped with cloth bandages. Mycroft, who sat across from him in John's chair, offered the other man a brief glance before going back to facing his sibling.

"I saw it on the telly. You okay?"

"Me? What?" Momentarily confused, the eccentric followed his gaze which took in the small destruction. "Oh, yeah, fine. Gas leak, apparently." He made another note, saying to his brother. "I can't."

" _Can't?_ " Mycroft repeated, unconvinced.

John interrupted, "And Marisol too?"

"Yes, yes." Watson visibly relaxed at the reassuring news. "And before you even ask, she went home last night after it happened." Sherlock added with sudden annoyance; his fingers brushed across the taut strings a bit roughly. His brother and companion stared, quietly intrigued. The mood change was obvious to the men watching but either mentioned it aloud, making their own separate mental analysis as to why instead.

The answer was quite simple though: _Marisol._

After spending the rest of night doing everything he knew how in expelling those conflicting thoughts, one stubbornly remained. The memory of her with Adam stuck in his mind like slow drying cement. A fierce anger filled him each time it wormed its' way to the forefront of his brilliant mind.

Needing to steer his mind from _it_ once more, he continued his conversation with the other Holmes. "Stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time."

"Never mind your usual trivia." his older brother remarked sternly, "This is of national importance."

"How's the diet?" the detective questioned in a mocking manner, wanting to get under his skin. It was a good way to release his pent-up aggression. But Mycroft was, unfortunately for him, having none of it.

" _Fine._ " The government official peered over at the doctor then. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John."

"What?"

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" mumbled Sherlock rudely.

"No, no, no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time." the other man denied, "Not with the Korean elections so—" Sherlock and Watson glanced at him, curious. He brushed it off with a secretive smile, stating neither needed to know. "Beside, a case like this, it requires.. _legwork._ " Mycroft grimaced at the very thought while his brother gave an exasperated look.

"Oh, stop being so stubborn already and just take the case, git." John and Mycroft turned to see Marisol stride into the room with her familiar coat draped over her arm and a Starbucks cup in her hand. No doubt her preferred usual—a _Chai Cr_ _è_ _me_ _Frappucino_. Sherlock offered a brief acknowledging glimpse. It was enough to quickly take in her ensemble for that day as always.

She decided to go simple this time with her clothing that day. The norms were still present: generic natural makeup, curls down in their familiar short hairstyle, and complimenting accessories. In the few months knowing each other, the eccentric could count on one hand the times she down-dressed from her pristine, modern fashion. But even so, it was still very much what he dubbed as her.

A plaid flannel button up shirt with her favorite colors pink and blue mixed in. The top two buttons were undone, allowing a brief glimpse of her cleavage. It tormented his mind with flashbacks of her petite form wrapped in his blue towel; a moan having to be suppressed. The sleeves were rolled to her elbows; a habit she always did when wearing long sleeved tops. Pastel pink skinny jeans hugged to the little curves she had inherited from her mother's side with reddish colored combat boots finishing the look.

Clear blues quickly shifted back to his violin. _"You need to stop that."_ he scolded himself, _"It's not helping stop your growing flaw at all."_ Especially when Mycroft was in a close vicinity with those cool calculated eyes.

John sighed with relief that his roommate was right about her well-being. The older Holmes, on the other hand, glanced back at his sibling with a raised brow; a silent question evident in his gaze.

' _Git_ _?'_ Said person ignored it as he replied to the young woman while still fiddling with his violin.

"As I told my brother, I'm too busy."

"..What happen there?" she asked inquisitively, gesturing to his wrapped hand. His hand hadn't been like that when she left..or had it? She didn't really linger in his direction long last night. Wicked thoughts and guilt running rampant in her head made it hard to do so.

And that just being in his proximity brought up memories of his always present warmth seeming to seep into her chilled skin from his lips. The steady rhythmic beat of his heart underneath her trembling palm. Or worse..that the young woman barely got any sleep because her mind kept tormenting her with _'what if Lestrade hadn't came'._

Marisol carefully fought back the sudden rush of heat building as those reminders swirled in her mind again, keeping her expression neutral.

It was also the true reason behind her run that morning to the nearest Starbucks, needing the sugary caffeinated drink to keep her body moving. And her makeup thankfully helped make the dark circles barely noticeable.

Sherlock's grip tighten on the violin. "Nothing to concern yourself with, Vallas."

Dark eyes rolled with irritation. "Well, excuse me for being a decent human being and worrying about you." was her blank remark before moving her attention on Watson. A warm but tired smile settled over her features then "Welcome back. How's Sarah?" Before he respond, the eccentric butted in.

"Yes, how is dear Sarah? How was the Lilo, too?" He turned his attention just in time to see the doctor rub his stiff neck with a pained expression. The others already figured he went to Sarah's since it was the only place he could get peace besides the writer's.

"Sofa, Sherlock." Mycroft corrected, glancing at the time on his pocket watch. "It was the sofa." The other Holmes checked again and quietly agreed.

"How..?" the doctor stared at the two, momentarily flabbergasted. He then remembered who they were and resigned before taking a sit on the dusty coffee table. "Oh, never mind."

The government official smiled his way. "Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you all—" His gaze shifted to Marisol for a second. Said person raised a brow, genuinely surprised he included her at all. "Became..pals." His next question was directed at John. "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

"I'm never bored." the other man informed with sincerity.

"Good. That's good, isn't it?" Mycroft stood before offering the younger Holmes a thick manilla folder. Sherlock just glared at him in his ever stubborn attitude. Annoyed, he moved over to Watson who unwillingly took it instead.

"Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. Civil servant." he began rattling off, "Found dead on the tracks at _Battersea_ station this morning with his head smashed in."

"Jumped in front of a train?" the doctor assumed his likely cause of death.

"Seems the logical assumption." the other man agreed.

John peered pointedly at him. "But?"

" _But?_ "

"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident." Sherlock gave a small approving chortle.

"The _M.O.D._ is working on a new missile defense system, the _Bruce-Partington Program_ it's called." explained Mycroft, "The plans for it were on a memory stick."

"That wasn't very clever." Marisol commented from her spot.

"It's not the only copy," the government official stated, looking from her then John sternly. "But it is secret and missing."

"Then it was even more of a stupid idea putting it on a memory stick, in my opinion." she couldn't help but smartly remark. Her hand then waved in a 'but please continue' manner as she walked over to her godfather to view the folder's contents as well. Her lack of sleep was making her more bold than usual. Sherlock's sibling, thankfully, let her remark slide.

"We think West must have taken the memory stick." he informed them further, "We can't risk it falling into the wrong hands. You've got to find those plans, Sherlock." His eyes narrowed. "Don't make me order you."

Resting the violin on his shoulder, he gave a murmured reply. A challenge plainly evident in each words. "I'd like to see you try."

"Think it over." Turning away, Mycroft said his farewells to Watson. "Goodbye, John. See you very soon." He then took his leave with a loud, repetitive note being played in his wake. Vallas grimaced in annoyance as the intrusive sound grated her sleep-deprived brain. Without thinking, she walked over to the detective and snatched the bow from his hand. Clear blues glared hard which her darker ones returned with equal venom; a silent feud passed between them.

John watched the two warily. The air around them wasn't the same as when they usually fought. Something was very off and it didn't seem likely they would share if asked. Even so, he did anyway.

"Is everything all right with you two?"

"Yes!" they snapped simultaneously, fixing their deadly gaze on him. Watson found that incredibly false even more now, but decided not to push either about it further. It would save him from the headache in doing so.

"Why'd you lie?" Watson asked his roommate instead. "You've got nothing on. Not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

"Why shouldn't I?" retorted the other man indifferently.

"Oh, my goodness." the young woman suddenly exclaimed. Leaning forward, she rested the eccentric's bow under his chin and cooed mockingly. "Does Sherly not like getting ordered around by his big brother?" He grimaced with another fierce glare directed at her, making a smug chuckle slip out. She had hit the nail perfectly on the head.

He stayed quiet and angrily took his musical tool back like a child would when the bully had their favorite toy. It didn't faze the young woman who just grinned contently, happy to have got under his skin yet again. Sherlock knew this, yet he couldn't resist reacting as such.

"Oh. Nice. Sibling rivalry." John nodded, understanding. "Now we're getting somewhere." Holmes' cellphone rang then. Not bothering to see who it was, he answered. For the first time that morning, his trademark smirk appeared as he listened to the person on the other line. His companions glanced at each other knowingly.

There was a new case to solve at last.

* * *

**[New Scotland Yard; 9:43am]**

Lestrade didn't waste time with greetings when the trio arrived, leading them right towards his office. Since meeting, they were all more acquainted than normal for the usual greetings. It was practically second nature to just get down to busy whenever they across paths. No one in the department questioned why these civilians were there anymore either. Holmes and his friends had managed to built quite the reputation in such a short time. Stares—glare from the ever pleasant Donovan—were thrown towards all of them now; with the occasional whisper too. It was kinda like what being a celebrity was. Thankfully, there weren't any cameras flashing in their faces or paparazzi dogging them whenever out and about.

"You like the funny cases, don't you?" Greg asked Holmes, "The surprising ones."

"Obviously." came the matter-of-fact reply.

"You'll love this. That explosion—"

"Gas leak, yes?"

"No."

Sherlock raised a curious brow. "No?"

"No. Made to look like one." he was informed as they stepped inside the small workspace. Actually, John and Sherlock did. Marisol decided to stick by the door. She wasn't at all thrilled to be back in Lestrade's presence with the events in the kitchen still fresh in her mind. Now, she didn't hate the man for interrupting—secretly glad for it, actually— it was the thought of how much he had possibly seen. How she and Holmes had to have looked like in his eyes. Those pondering thoughts made an embarrassed blush paint her cheeks and eyes downcast while stuck in there for the time being.

"Hardly anything left of the place, except a strongbox. A _very_ strong box and inside it—" Lestrade pointed to an envelope placed in the center of his messy desk. "—was this."

"You haven't opened it?" the eccentric queried. He then was told it was addressed only to him and had been checked by x-ray, seeming safe. Highly doubting the other man's reassurance, Sherlock did his own analysis instead. "Nice stationery. Bohemian."

"What?" the Detective Inspector questioned, lost.

"From the Czech Republic." was clarified to him and the rest, "No fingerprints?" There was none found, the man informed. Peering at his name written neatly and nicely in blue ink under the desk lamp..there was an obvious clue. Well, only one he and a trained graphologist could see.

"She used a fountain pen. Parker Duoflod, iridium nib."

"She?" Watson and Vallas said aloud. Was another woman behind this..or was General Shan back with a vengeance? It would explain why the envelope was addressed to him and the explosion happening so close to his residence. Her whereabouts and status was still greatly unknown to the trio, so it wouldn't be too surprising if this was her.

But the writer was tentative to fully believe. _"_ _T_ _his_ _seems_ _way_ _too elaborate to be_ _her work or_ _the Black Lotus_ _alone_ _.._ _"_

"Obviously." Holmes remarked as if it was plain as day. The envelope was finally opened, revealing a cellphone in a pink case. The exact same brand and one once owned by the late Jennifer Wilson.

"But that..that's the phone." John stated in surprise, "The pink phone."

"What, from _The Study in Pink_?"

"Obviously, it's not the same phone, but it's supposed to look like— _Study in Pink_?" Peering back at the Detective Inspector, a 'not you too' expression was given. "You read his blog?"

"Of course I read his blog. We all do." Lestrade admitted as if it was the most natural thing to do next to reading the Sunday paper. He then decided to put the other man in the spotlight. "Do you _really_ not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?" Donovan, who slipped inside to retrieve some papers, snickered at the question; much to Holmes' annoyance. Marisol, too. Her jaw visibly clenched as she held back a rude retort from slipping out.

Never given a response, Sherlock proceeded like before. "It isn't the same phone. This one's brand-new. Someone's taken trouble to make it look the same," He glanced at John. "Which means your _blog_ has a far wider readership." Upon turning it on, a single voice message was shown onscreen—a recording of five short tones played back.

"Was that it?"

"No, that's not it." A poor picture of a decrepit room popped up.

"What the hell are we supposed to make of that?" expressed Greg, "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips."

"It's a warning."

"A warning?"

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that— _five pips_. They're warning us it's going to happen again." Curiosity having got the better of her, the writer moved closer to take a quick peak as well. She tilted her head slightly as the peeling, mold-covered wallpaper immediately caused familiarity bells to chime in her head. It reminded her very much of the smiley face adorned one she saw constantly in 221B's sitting room.

"Sherlock..that wallpaper—" Vallas spoke up then but stopped as he laid his hand atop her shoulder. She tried with all her might not to stiffen at the sudden touch—ignoring how nice it felt—and met his gaze instead.

"I know." he softly confirmed her suspicions. "I've seen this place before." His hand moved from her shoulder to grab hold of hers before wordlessly pulling her along as they left the room. John and Lestrade hurried after them.

"Hang on. What's going to happen again?"

The young woman peered back somberly. ".. _Boom._ "

* * *

**[Outside the abandoned 221C; 10:27am]**

Standing outside of 221C together in a row silently were Sherlock, Marisol, John, and Greg as they waited for Mrs. Hudson to find the keys. A subtle nervous energy seemed to migrate between the family members and Detective Inspector while the eccentric was..the opposite as always. Cool and collected, he stood examining the paint chipped door. But the others knew well he was buzzing with exhilaration underneath that aloof mask.

Mrs. Hudson finally appeared, offering a small gold key from the ring of various types. "You had a look, didn't you, when you first came to see about your flat?"

"The door's been opened, recently." he informed her then.

"No, can't be." she said, doubtful. "That's the only key." She then rambled on about not getting anyone to border the basement flat which led to a tangent about a place she had plagued with black mold. Unfortunately, the foursome didn't stay to listen to the sweet woman as they hurried down the steps towards damp smelling room.

If the situation didn't already give off the pretense to a suspense thriller, the pair of white trainers that sat ominously in the middle to the filthy carpeted floor waiting for the group sealed the deal. As always, Holmes was right—Someone had indeed been there. The very thought caused goosebumps to rise on Vallas' arms.

The detective took a step closer. "He's a bomber, remember." Watson reminded him. He approached more carefully then. Not a sound was made as the others watched him and hoped the trainers weren't rigged to end them all. Clear gaze attentive, the enigmatic man knelt beside them before sprawling his body forward for an even better look. As his face drew nearer..a generic ringtone suddenly pierced the quiet air causing everyone to jump a bit with surprise.

The noise was then revealed to be coming from the imitative pink phone. It's caller ID read—

**Number Blocked**

"..Hello." Sherlock answered softly once accepting the mysterious call.

" _.._ _H-Hello..sexy._ "

**-TBC-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Important Future Note)) I'm also a hell of a lot more active on my main tumblr, so if any of you have questions, curiosities, or just want to talk, hit me up there-> (backroadimpala.tumblr.com) Until next time, babes!


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